


Opportunity Cost

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Politics, Romance, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 10:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15839622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Draco Malfoy needs an escort. Hermione Granger needs the money. One week in Italy could give them both far more than what they bargained for.A darker take on the classic film "Pretty Woman."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my beta, eilonwy, for her help. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Thanks as well to the Remix fest mods for hosting the fest; it’s one of my favorites! My couple was Edward Lewis and Vivian Ward from "Pretty Woman" (1990). 
> 
> Cold, calculating, and accustomed to getting his way, businessman Edward Lewis is caught off-guard when his girlfriend refuses to accompany him on a business trip. Later that night, he meets Vivian Ward and proposes a deal: in return for accompanying him for the week, she will earn $3,000. Vivian, a sex worker struggling to make rent, accepts his offer. They fall in love over cocktail dinners, social functions, and encounters with questionable associates. But is continuing their relationship worth the risk it entails? 
> 
> Finally, I don’t own “Pretty Woman”, but I have used some of the movie’s lines in this fic. I’ve referenced them at the end of the chapters as needed. Please don’t sue me.

**Chapter 1**

Draco grimaced as he sipped his martini, the bitter, over-salted olives and herbaceous gin turning his stomach. He would have preferred wine — a nice German white, dry and delicately floral — but Blaise Zabini had shoved the top-heavy glass into his hand before Draco had made it halfway to the bar. Blaise had walked away with a smirk, too, as if the bastard had known exactly what would nauseate him. 

In all fairness, he probably had. 

The room in which they were gathered was small and crowded. Diplomats and their wives stood shoulder to shoulder with the lower cadre of ministerial climbers, each trying to network his or her way into a position of power. The more naïve ones probably just wanted their legislative proposal to be seen, but that wasn’t how it worked. Money, more than charm, wit, or supporting evidence, made ideas move. Change was not a product of inspired people working in concert towards a transformational end. It was transactional. Cause and effect. If the cause had the right number of Galleons attached to it, maybe the desired effect could be achieved. 

Draco scanned for a waiter. Liveried in black and white, the serving staff navigated the crowd on predetermined paths, bearing trays of glittering glasses and a selection of hors d’oeuvres. None of their paths intersected with Draco’s position, stranded in the room’s center like an island beaten by the surf. There were no tables, windowsills, or even potted plants that would facilitate abandoning the drink. And so Draco sipped. Maybe if he drank quickly, inebriation would override his growing malaise. 

Or maybe not. Ivo Kühn, Blaise’s diplomatic counterpart and one of the men they had been negotiating with over the past several weeks, wove his way through the crowd. He walked with unmistakable intent and arrived before Draco could figure out how to get the marble floor to open beneath him and swallow him whole. He held a near-empty glass of white wine. 

“ _Prost, Herr_ Malfoy.” 

Draco raised his glass. 

“Cheers, Mr. Kühn.” 

They smiled, sipped. The German cocked his head. 

“The martini is not to your taste tonight, I see.” 

“Not quite,” Draco admitted. 

Ivo gestured toward the bar. 

“Then let us find you a more palatable beverage.” 

After a decade in politics, Draco knew that Ivo was not simply playing the role of magnanimous host. He also knew better than to refuse. Deviations from the norm were usually followed by opportunity, and only a fool gave an answer before he knew the question. 

“Riesling, _zwei_ ,” Ivo said to the bartender. 

Two glasses of golden wine slid across the bar. Aromatic and acidic, dry with the taste of apple and pear. Ivo smiled. 

“I know this week has not been easy, but I do believe our agreement provides greatest benefit for both our countries.” 

_Not easy_ was an understatement. For almost a decade, the German _Ministerium_ had leveled harsh sanctions on the United Kingdom. Trade of everything from potion ingredients to wand cores had at some point been taxed, tariffed, or terminated. The mere suggestion of finally receiving economic relief had prompted a series of meetings, culminating in this: a week of hammering negotiations that had taken all of Draco’s considerable cunning and Blaise’s long-cultivated patience to survive without diplomatic incident. 

“Surely you agree,” Ivo continued, pressing when Draco did no more than shrug. “A measure of free trade has once again been established between our two nations.” 

“At the cost of our people,” Draco countered. 

The issue of citizenship had been a sore point throughout their talks: did those who emigrated from Germany to the United Kingdom prior to May 2, 1998, have the right to return to it? 

Ivo thought so. His light blue eyes were immovable as glaciers and his tone just as cold as he said, “They were never yours.” 

The statement lingered just long enough for Draco to feel its weight across his shoulders, to remember how close the Germans had come to walking away from the deal before Blaise had caved. Then, Ivo waved it away. 

“Ah, but this question has been settled. There are different matters to discuss tonight. Do tell me, Malfoy, how long have you been in Voldemort's employ?” 

Draco had heard the Dark Lord’s name spoken by foreigners often enough that it had lost some of its power. The casual nature of the question, however, was cause for alarm. Draco lifted his chin. 

“I took the Mark at sixteen. I have been loyal to him ever since.” 

“Yes, I do remember reading that now. And when did he appoint you Minister of Foreign Trade?” 

“Ten years ago.” 

Ivo nodded and looked toward the ceiling, as if performing the calculation for the first time. It was a convincing act. 

“The Mark at 16, Trade Minister at 28. That leaves 22 years of loyalty, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“But has it always been such?” 

Draco’s blood ran cold as Ivo stepped closer, his voice dropping low. 

“You are a clever negotiator, a fine researcher, and a canny politician. But so am I. I have done my research on _you_ , and do you know what I found? An account of a most interesting episode at Malfoy Manor when you were just 17, involving three prisoners and your inability to identify them.” 

“I was a child. It means nothing.” 

Ivo tipped his head. 

“Fair enough. But your Muggle-born capture rates may. Those years in the interim — after the failed Battle of Hogwarts, before Voldemort realized that _Britain First_ meant _Britain Alone_ — you and your ilk hunted Muggle-born witches and wizards. You rounded them up. Called them traitors to the race. Sent them to camps.” 

“I know what I did.” 

Draco kept his voice even, but couldn’t stop his eyes from darting. Left and right, socializing party guests. No one gave him or Ivo a second thought. It probably looked like an intense conversation between adversaries. It was, in a way, though Ivo couldn’t have known the danger he was putting them in. His language alone was enough to prompt a stint in Azkaban; Draco had seen people permanently disappeared for less. 

“And perhaps what you did not do. If I can find the pattern, surely someone else, someone in your government, can.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

“Far from,” Ivo said with a mollifying gesture. “Indeed, it is quite the opposite.” He, too, glanced left and right. “Let us get some air. It is a pleasant night, and there is nothing like a German evening at harvest time.” 

Draco shot a quick glance over his shoulder. He spotted Blaise chatting up a redheaded woman in a low-cut blouse. When Blaise dipped his head toward the woman’s neck, Draco knew his colleague would not notice his absence. 

He followed Ivo to the building’s rear garden, where a broad terrace, paved with stone and bordered by a waist-high rail, overlooked a rolling vineyard and an ample lilac sky. The air carried the faint, sweet smell of soil and fruit, and the evening buzzed and chirped with the sound of insects. Bats darted from the nearby trees, their clumsy, patternless fluttering disguising predatory efficiency. To Draco, it felt like stepping out of time, exiting one life and entering another running parallel. Because how could this idyllic world possibly be the same as the one in which he lived? 

“Beautiful, no?” 

“Peaceful.” It was as close as he could come to the truth. 

“It was not always so. Before your time, but not so long before mine, this land was under siege. A man with twisted ideals persuaded a great many people of their own superiority. Do you know what happened to that man and his followers?” 

Draco knew admittedly little about Muggle history, but this was one story he had heard. It was difficult to ignore the similarities. He kept his mouth closed and his eyes on the distant vineyard. 

“I know from the weeks we have spent together that you are a smart man. I know from your record that you are a survivor. You must see where this is going. How this experiment in dictatorship must end.” 

He did. 

The Dark Lord had never intended a slaughter, and he had enough control over his followers that a Muggle genocide had been avoided. His true goal had always been abject subjugation —Muggles put in their proper place as the lowest caste of human, barely above beasts, and living under the rule of those whom nature had decreed worthy by way of the magic in their blood. 

It had been easy. After the Dark Lord had invaded the minds of the United Kingdom’s most influential leaders and outed the existence of magic to the world, it was a simple matter to push the necessary policies. The dehumanization was slow, at first. Subtle. Restriction of the press, mandatory curfews, a social credit system. Each law was couched in the language of protection, of wizards guarding Muggles against vague, looming horrors that would destroy their homes and rip their families apart. Anyone who resisted was killed. 

For many years, it had worked. 

For the past few years, it had not. 

Social unrest was growing amongst the Muggles, and wealth inequality amongst the magical population was at its highest level in centuries. Economic stagnation drove a dwindling population which drove more of the same, a cycle the Dark Lord thought could be broken via negotiation and compromise. Draco knew it was nothing more than a bandage on an infected limb, a stopgap toward amputation or, if nothing meaningful changed, complete demise. 

“What of it?” Draco could practically taste his own bitterness. “I'm one of the followers. I know my fate.” 

Ivo spared him a sideways glance. 

“You think your fate is predetermined? That you cannot change it?” 

“Change is an illusion.” 

“Change is an inevitability, like the rising tide. If you know when it is coming, you can swim in it. If you do not, you may drown. Knowledge and preparation — those make the difference.” 

Something in Draco’s chest snapped, like a dry twig cracking underfoot. 

“And you're the one teaching me to swim, Kühn? You think you're the first to try?” 

“Malfoy —” 

“I've made my choice.” Saying it aloud carried the weight of a death knell. “I will serve the Dark Lord until he no longer deems me worthy to do so.” Draco turned away from both the pastoral scene and the opportunity Ivo presented. He was nearly to the door. 

“He will kill you.” 

Ivo spoke quietly, but the words crashed into Draco with all the force of a Bludger. He stopped to absorb the impact. Ivo was right. He was playing with fire, funneling people out of the country. If anyone suspected, it wouldn’t take long for the truth to be discovered. Two months, maybe four to get the full picture of it. 

Even if Draco’s perfidy were never discovered, there were the Muggles to consider. How long would it take them to realize that wizards were still human? Their anger would eventually override their fear. What would they sacrifice to regain control of their lives? 

“Time kills us all,” Draco muttered. He forced his feet to move. 

An officious looking young man met him at the doorway. 

“ _Herr_ Malfoy? You have an urgent Firecall. May I show you to the conference room?” 

“I know where it is.” 

He took the stairs two at a time and closed the conference room door. He loathed the sight of it: the scuffed beige paint, decided upon by some design committee to be both unobjectionable and cheap; the scratched table, lacquered once long ago and ignored ever since; the corporate art, abstract, ugly, and strongly reminiscent of the 1980s. After almost sixty hours of confinement over the past five days, Draco felt like he knew this room better than his own flat. 

The young man's disembodied voice filled the space. 

“Astoria Greengrass on the Firecall.” 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and fought the urge to collapse into a chair. Instead, he leaned against the table and crossed his arms, feigning composure. He took a deep breath. 

“Patch her through.” 

“You're going to Italy?” The Firecall did nothing to mitigate Astoria’s biting tone. She was in a mood tonight. 

So was he. 

“Nice to see you, too.” 

“Were you going to tell me?” 

“Of course. You're coming with me.” 

She arched a manicured eyebrow, her blue-green eyes shining with challenge. 

“Oh?” 

“It’s a goodwill visit to formally finalize and sign a trade agreement. Italy is a sympathetic ally, but our intelligence officials recommended traveling with a companion for optimal aesthetics.” 

“Aesthetics,” Astoria repeated with a calculated moue. “Is that all I am to you?” 

There was reason to tread lightly. As much as petite, blonde, buxom Astoria looked as though her gravest concern was the new season from Paris’ trendiest designers, she was as much of a social climber as any of the parasites in the gallery. Worse, she was good at it. Whatever he said would be remembered, shared in a dozen publications, and quickly taken out of context, twisted until it became the most effective weapon: one of his own design. Her question, however, took him off-guard, and the truth came falling out before Draco had the presence of mind to stop it. 

“Yes.” 

Astoria gaped. Her affront would have been comical had it not meant the end of everything. But there was no way to backpedal, no way to recover from the freefall in which he found himself. To continue the lie would have been a disservice to them both. 

“That’s all this has ever been.” He tried to keep his tone clear of condescension, but her darkening expression indicated limited success. “I made that clear from the beginning. I had no intention of settling down. You said you agreed.” 

“That was three years ago. I would’ve said anything to get into your bed. I thought you were changing your mind, that this was going somewhere, and I wasn’t just… Just _wasting my time_.” 

“I never indicated that my mind could be changed.” 

“Three _years_ ,” she repeated. “Waiting on _you_.” 

“I never made you stay.” 

“You _owe_ me.” 

Draco’s temper flared with the fire. 

“Then you’ll see a reimbursement in your Gringott’s vault in the morning,” he snapped. 

Astoria paused, her brows drawn together. 

“ _What_?” 

“I believe you’ll find the compensation fair.” 

“That’s not what I —” 

“I expect you out of the flat in an hour.” 

One moment. Draco saw one moment of genuine emotion in Astoria, a silver crack in her steel façade from which confusion, self-doubt, and sadness radiated like the last glimpse of sunlight before an eclipse. 

Emotion was dangerous. It showed investment, and what could be nurtured could just as easily be destroyed or used as leverage. Emotion implied connection, and connection was weakness. Anyone who still survived in this world understood that, and Draco had not only survived, but thrived. He tried not to think about what that meant, or what he’d lost for what he’d gained. 

The moment passed. Silver turned back to steel, and the notion of loss sank back into the depths. 

“I never loved you,” Astoria said, her eyes narrow and dark with rage. “Not really.” 

“I never needed you to.” 

The fire extinguished with a quiet hiss, and Draco sat in darkness until the motion-activated candles flicked to life. The light crystallized a realization: he had made a mistake. 

Not in breaking things off with her — that had been inevitable — but in the timing of it. He was expected in Italy in two days and needed a companion for the week. Delaying the argument would have been wise, but wisdom had never been his forte. He knocked back the rest of his wine. What had moments ago reminded him of a crisp autumn day now tasted like vinegar. 

Downstairs, the crowd had thinned. Draco found Blaise in a shadowed corner, now engaged with an olive-skinned woman whose sheet of dark hair looked like silk. 

“I’m leaving,” Draco announced. 

Blaise held up a finger, and Draco clenched his fist, weighing the consequences of turning the Minister of Population Control into an invertebrate. Perhaps sensing his impending transformation, Blaise surfaced with a sigh. 

“We’re scheduled to leave tomorrow,” he said, running a long finger down the woman's cheek. “After our congratulatory lie-in and brunch.” 

“Make my excuses.” 

Blaise looked over his shoulder, his feline eyes alight, as if Draco had made the first move in an unspoken game of chess. 

“And if I don’t?” 

“Then don’t.” 

Blaise’s eyes narrowed. 

“What happened?” 

“Minor personal setback.” 

“Personal, or personnel?” 

Draco glared, annoyed that the cause of his displeasure could be so obvious. Blaise smirked. 

“How does this impact Italy?” 

“It doesn’t.” 

A muscle in Blaise’s cheek twitched. Though he often traveled at the Dark Lord’s behest, Blaise had been intentionally kept from Italy and, by extension, his mother. If Draco couldn’t attend the Italy meeting, Blaise was the Dark Lord’s next best choice. He hid his disappointment in the cascade of the woman’s hair and the comfort of her arms. 

“I’ll make your excuses. See you in a week.” 

Ivo caught his eye on the way to the Floo. For a moment, Draco worried he would try to reopen their conversation. Instead, the German lifted his chin. A question: had he been understood? Draco dipped his head in answer: yes. They left it at that. 

He tossed a handful of powder into the fire and paused. Astoria would still be gathering her things from his flat. There were plenty of places he could go, but only one that suited his restlessness and need for release. 

He had already made one mistake, after all. What could be the harm in another?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Hermione Granger didn’t like mirrors. The aversion had started before Hogwarts, shortly before she had learned about her magic, at one of the rare primary school sleepovers her parents had encouraged her to attend. A girl named Jillian had dared her to play Bloody Mary, and peer pressure had forced her answer. Locked in the water closet, unable to turn on the light for fear of being mocked, Hermione had closed her eyes and chanted the name. She remembered the squealing sound of nails on glass and the screams of the girls on the door’s opposite side. But she never saw what she had summoned. Couldn’t gather the courage to look. 

Since that night, she had feared looking into a mirror and seeing the specter she had conjured. She imagined it waiting, patient and still, invisible until the perfect moment, when it would press its fingers against the glass, catch her hair, and drag her away. 

If she’d never been a witch, perhaps this fear would have remained irrational. Perhaps she would’ve moved past it, relegating it to a mere horror-movie trope used for jump-scares and cheap thrills. 

But she was a witch, and though she had not looked into the Mirror of Erised herself, Harry’s retelling nevertheless represented a pivotal moment. Not when she had crossed a dark lake toward a magic castle, whose spires scraped the sky like something out of a fantasy novel. Not when she had levitated a feather around a classroom or smuggled a dragon off school grounds or berated herself for cowardice while mounting a shaky broomstick. 

It was when she had learned that what had previously seemed impossible could become possible. When the boundary between unreal and real no longer mattered, and fears could be made manifest and hidden in secret chambers and old trunks. 

She had gone over two decades without seeing anyone but herself in the reflective surface of a mirror. 

Now, she looked into them to intentionally conjure a stranger. 

Charming her hair was always the first step and always the most traumatic. So much of her identity was wrapped up in her chocolate-brown curls. Boys had tugged on them in primary school and mocked them at Hogwarts. Late in her seventh year, one had twined his fingers through them and moaned her name in the tenuous privacy of a camp tent. Smoothing them out, lightening their color, and casting blonde highlights that never looked quite natural erased that history. 

Once her hair was done, the heavy cosmetics charms hardly seemed to matter. Contouring narrowed her forehead and sharpened her cheekbones. Heavy eye shadow, thick liner, and ample mascara helped disguise the dark amber of her eyes. Cherry red lipstick gave her a pout, and her short black dress and three-inch heels felt more like a uniform than an expression of her sexuality. 

She stared at the stranger in the glass and completed the ritual, chanting another set of words that would finalize the transformation. 

“I say when. I say who. I say how much. I say when. I say who. I say how much.” 

With that, Hermione Granger disappeared. In her place, on the real side of the mirror, was Vivian Ward. 

She grabbed her cloak and tucked her wand into her clutch. She left her flat unlocked; it contained nothing worth stealing. Everything that mattered was in her purse. 

The streets were grim and damp in the way that only Octobers in London could be, when the heady scent of decomposing leaves mixed with the funk of alleyway garbage. The night might not have been pleasant, but the grey market hummed along, indifferent to the weather. Women with less freedom than she loitered on street corners, catcalling to men in cars. A lucky few climbed into them; an unlucky few would never climb back out. Down one alley, two wizards in official Magical Law Enforcement cloaks cornered a man. They demanded to see his identification. When he failed to produce it, they would ask for a few Sickles. If he failed yet again, it would be a beating or an arrest, depending on how much he argued. She heard a grunt and a pained wheeze as she passed and felt a wave of shame: she had done nothing to help him. In fact, she was relieved it hadn’t been her. 

A few blocks further, she reached a condemned brick building. With its boarded-over door and windows that gaped like broken teeth, it seemed to draw the evening’s meager light into it like a black hole. Most pedestrians gave it a wide berth. She continued through the Muggle-repelling charms with a shiver and nodded to the muscular bouncer who guarded the front door, which was now matte black with a silver, twisted handle. Above the door, cursive lettering was backlit by a light the color of an overgrown greenhouse. _The Devil’s Snare_. 

The bouncer gestured her down the alleyway, where anyone without a pure-blood pedigree was required to enter. She picked a relatively clean path through the detritus and oily, puddled water and shoved a shoulder into the barred rear door. The metal hinges gave way on her second try with their usual scrape and squeal. She shoved the door closed and made her way to the front by memory. 

The Snare was doing good business. Ice tinkled against glass, bright notes against the low, steady hum of conversation. Men in fine robes lounged upon overstuffed chairs while women too young and affectionate to be their wives perched on their knees or settled into their laps. A thin haze of cigar smoke hung overhead. 

She sat at the main bar. It was a prime location, in the corner and against a wall, affording her a view of almost the entire club. She draped her cloak over the back of her high-top chair and assumed the position: legs crossed so that her dress rode up her thighs; shoulders relaxed and inviting; face impassive, neither eager nor hostile. Bored was ideal, an implicit and oftentimes irresistible challenge. 

The first drink, a dirty martini, arrived within minutes. 

“From the gentleman across the way.” The bartender, a half-blood named Lucas, nodded toward the humidors. 

A reedy man with thick glasses and a shock of white hair sipped his own martini. The wingback chair dwarfed his slim frame, and his eyes seem to glow from the darkness. He stared at her unabashed, a predatory smile lingering beneath his thick mustache. She slid her eyes away and down, as if considering. 

“Do you know him?” 

“By reputation only. You know Jasmina?” 

“By reputation only.” 

“She went with him last week. Came here the morning after to pick up her cloak with a black eye and a limp.” 

Bile bit the back of Hermione’s throat, and she dug her fingernails into her palm. When she could manage a breath, she smiled up at Lucas. 

“Thanks.” 

She locked eyes with the mustached man and pushed the drink away. 

Lucas reached for it. 

“Do you want me to —” 

“Leave it,” she said. “I want him to know he failed.” 

Lucas withdrew his hand without comment, tending to his business and leaving Hermione to hers. 

Ten minutes later, she saw him. 

Dressed in a slate-grey, immaculately tailored suit, his platinum blond hair was swept back in artful carelessness. His eyes were focused, the anticipatory grey of the sea before a storm. What might have been amusement played over his sharp features, pulling at the corners of his mouth and flashing like lightning in the maelstrom of his eyes. A surge of raw adrenaline bolted through her, lighting up every inch of her body. She uncrossed her legs, bracing one heel on the stretcher of her chair and the other on the floor. But she had missed her chance to run. He stopped before her, blocking not only her escape, but also her view of the room. 

Hermione could do no more than watch in expressionless horror as Draco Malfoy laid his cloak over the back of a neighboring chair. 

“The martini not to your taste tonight?” 

She laid a palm flat against the bar and forced herself to breathe. Her reply came out shaky. 

“It’s not my favorite. My main objection, however, is to the man who sent it.” 

Draco followed her gaze across the lounge. The mustached man continued to glare, the open wound of rejection festering like an infected bite. Draco turned back to her with a smirk. 

“You’re not spoken for tonight, then?” 

It was a joke. She knew it was a joke and knew she should reply with something equally light — ideally, a witty comment disparaging the mustached man while stroking Draco’s ego as the preferred alternative. 

On any other night, if he were any other man and she were any other woman, he would have been. Draco was undeniably attractive. He held himself with confidence, like he had never once questioned his place in the world, and when he looked at her, Hermione felt _seen_. It wasn’t the appraising look she usually got, as if she was an expensive bauble that required thorough inspection prior to purchase. Neither was it the lust-filled, alcohol-fuzzed leer that came at the end of a slow night, when clients were scarce but rent still had to be paid. He looked at her as though she were a human, not an object, and that she, above all others, was worthy of his notice. 

On any other night. If he were any other man. If she were any other woman. 

But none of those conditions were true, and so her answer came as quick and sharp as a blade. 

“I speak for myself.” 

A blink broke his otherwise steady gaze, and Hermione shifted, readjusting the hem of her dress as a plausible excuse to break eye contact. Draco’s skill as a Legilimens was an oft-repeated rumor that she had no intention of confirming. 

“It’s been a long time since someone has spoken to me like that.” 

Hermione pressed her lips together, mind tripping over her most likely futures. He might arrest her. Would they hold a sham trial, or move right to the public execution once they discovered her identity? Or he might not bother bringing her in. He had the power and authority to kill her right now, no questions asked. Her charms would break upon her death, and he would probably receive a commendation for his stellar fieldwork. 

Or was there a third option? 

The atrocities Voldemort and his followers had committed in the name of blood purity were widely known; they had taken no measures to hide them, choosing to rule through terror and violence. Stories specifically about Draco were harder to verify. 

In the early years, when the Order still had sources at the Ministry of Magic, there had been reports of inconsistencies in his Muggle-born capture rates. Dozens of Muggle-born witches and wizards allegedly captured, dozens of people documented to have arrived at the camps, yet the camps’ resources never reflected the influx. One would expect an increase in food consumption, at least, but the levels never budged. 

No one in Voldemort’s administration had noticed, but the government operated in such silos that the oversight was not beyond possibility. Anyone who did notice would have had to cross-check ledgers of inventory and people, find the correlation, and prove a pattern. It had taken the Order’s specialist, who had been looking for officials to flip, half a year to discover the inconsistency, and he had not been able to confirm it before he was executed for treason. In a nascent government that was less concerned with the means than the ends, Draco could have subverted Voldemort’s authority easily. 

Could still be doing so, in fact. 

There had been disappearances over the years: haphazard, poorly documented reports of single witches and wizards, and sometimes entire families, vanishing overnight. Houses abandoned, personal belongings intact, as if the owners had disintegrated. Some thought it was the Minister of Population Control staging quiet raids on disruptive citizens. Others reported seeing the disappeared leave dead-drop notes on London park benches in the middle of the night, and a slim man in a dark cloak retrieving them. That could have been anybody, but Draco’s name had been suggested more than once. 

It all worked to create a gaping hole in her mental conception of him. The petty little boy she had known at Hogwarts had been capable of cruelty, but not killing. The man who stood before her, whose eyes bored into her like steel bits through hard packed earth, was surely capable of both. 

He offered her his hand. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said with a smile. 

And that quickly, the riddle of his character no longer mattered. He did not recognize her, which meant that this job could be her last. It was risky, stupid, and could get her imprisoned, killed, or both, but three years of sex work was three years too many. She needed money; he had it. The calculus was clear. 

“Vivian Ward.” 

His skin was warm, his grip firm. Her heart stuttered as he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her knuckles, then sank as he turned her hand over. The embellished _H_ stood out starkly against her skin of her wrist. She had had the tattoo for seven years and still could not stand the sight of it. Apparently satisfied, he released her hand. 

“What would you like to drink, Vivian?” 

She cleared her throat. 

“Whiskey. Neat,” she added, in response to his side-eyed look. 

Draco turned to Lucas, who had appeared as if summoned. 

“Two Blishen’s, neat.” Another appraising look. “Make them doubles.” 

Moments later, Draco handed her a tumbler of amber fire and raised his glass. 

“To new acquaintances,” he said. 

She tapped his glass and, harboring a secret smile, drank. As the alcohol burned down her throat, she felt some of her hard-learned compartmentalization return. If she were going to do this, she had to forget what she knew — or thought she knew — about Draco. He might be a willing participant or a quiet savior, but he was a man first. That was all he could be to her tonight. 

Though, admittedly, it might take her longer than normal to see him that way. 

“Do you come here often?” 

Or maybe not. 

“You were doing so well,” she said on an exaggerated sigh. 

He shrugged like her disdain did not matter, even as the color in his cheeks darkened half a shade. 

“I’ve never seen you here before.” 

“Do _you_ come here often?” 

“No,” he admitted. “Just when I want to make a bad decision.” 

“Don’t make enough of those at work?” 

Tension sprung up like a wall between them. Draco cut his eyes to hers fast enough to catch her wince. 

“Mistakes aren’t tolerated well where I work,” he said delicately. “You know who I am? How I make my living?” 

There was no sense in lying. 

“Yes.” 

He laid his hand on her arm and left it there through her flinch. 

“You’re not in any danger,” he whispered, “but let’s not talk further about my work.” 

She nodded and took another drink. Their knees brushed as Draco pulled himself close. 

“Tell me about yourself, Vivian. Did you go to Hogwarts?” 

Hermione brushed her hair over her shoulder. 

“I was homeschooled. Did you?” 

He arched a brow. 

“You said you know who I am.” 

“Just because I know your name doesn’t mean I know your history,” she said, a slow flush of color crawling up her neck. 

He leaned in again, his lips quirked in a grin. 

“Do you want to guess?” 

“Must we?” 

“Humor me.” 

“Fine. Draco Malfoy’s tale of woe…” She narrowed her eyes as if to study him, buying time to calculate how much truth to weave into the lie. Too much would be suspicious; too little, insulting. “You did go to Hogwarts. Slytherin house, obviously. You played Quidditch. Chaser, I think, though you weren’t very good. You studied hard and were the best in your year. You always knew you were destined for greatness, but never knew how you’d get there. Then the Dark Lord rose, and the Boy Who Lived died, and you found your path.” She looked down at her drink, tracing a finger around the rim of the glass. “How did I do?” 

“I was an excellent Seeker. And I wasn’t the best in my year. I was consistently bested by a very clever witch.” 

“I’m surprised you can admit that.” 

“I’ve learned to admit some failings. But only some.” He checked his watch. “Vivian, I would very much appreciate if you accompanied me to my flat tonight.” 

Her heart raced as he smiled at her, an expression so effortless, so easy, that she could almost mistake it for genuine. 

“Are you sure you can afford me?” 

“I can’t afford not to.” 

She furrowed her brow. It was a strange reply, but she had taken stranger clients. 

“500 Galleons.” It was an exaggerated price, far above market value and more than she needed, but the negotiation had to start somewhere. 

“Done.” 

She dropped her glass. The tumbler landed with a heavy clank, and her remaining whiskey spilled across the bar. All of her clients, without exception, had negotiated the price. Draco accepting her first, patently ludicrous offer triggered every instinct she had. The urge to run flared, stronger and more insistent than when he had prowled toward her from across the lounge. 

Though fleeing guaranteed her survival, it would ruin her life. She had tucked her clutch into her cloak’s inside pocket, and her cloak was now folded over Draco’s right arm. If she left him, she also left her books, her savings, her wand. Everything. 

She had to go with him. She had to walk through the lounge with his hand on her lower back and step into his arms after he’d activated the Floo. She had to endure the seconds-long journey pressed against his chest and hide her shiver when he trailed his fingers along the top line of her hips after they’d landed. He gestured to his flat with one hand. 

“Ladies first.” 

Her heels clicked against polished wood floors, and candles lit automatically, illuminating neutral grey walls, vaulted ceilings, and simple furniture in dark colors — burgundy, navy, emerald. There were no photos or unnecessary décor. His space was impersonal, and the reminder steadied her. Draco was a client, no different from any other man on any other night. She could do this, just like she had hundreds of times before. 

“Nice place.” 

“ _Witch Weekly_ described it as elegant, modern, minimalist, and cold.” 

She glanced back, made a show of looking him up and down. 

“A reflection of its owner, perhaps?” 

He set their cloaks on a side chair and removed his suit jacket and tie. 

“I’m not paying you for psychoanalysis.” 

“You haven’t paid me at all.” 

“Perhaps we should change that.” 

His approach was slow and measured. Goose flesh rose on her skin as he skimmed his fingers up her arms. 

“What do you do?” 

“Everything,” she answered, her stomach in her throat. She looked up at him through her lashes, noticing flecks of blue near his irises. “But I don’t kiss on the mouth.” 

He chuckled low in his chest and pressed his lips to her cheek, then skimmed them over her ear. 

“Neither do I.” 

Hermione tilted her head back as Draco kissed her throat. His hands ghosted along the contours of her body, close enough to brush the fabric of her dress, for her to feel the faint static between them. But he didn’t touch her. He seemed to wait for permission, as if he drew some backwards distinction between his lips and her neck and his hands and her hips. 

She had no such scruples. He had hired her for pleasure, and she would give it to him. 

She reached for his waistband and untucked his shirt. Her fingers made quick work of the buttons, and she smoothed it over his shoulders and onto the floor. He watched as she ran her hands over his pectorals and down his obliques to settle on his hips. She looked up at him with a coy smile and stepped forward. He stepped back, and she stepped forward again, angling him toward the sofa. When the back of his knees hit the cushion, he sat. 

She stood over him for a moment and felt a heady, traitorous rush in her belly as Draco looked up at her from beneath soft, hooded eyes. He wanted her. And for just a second, she let herself want him, too. She slid into the heat of mutual desire as though it were a warm bath, the idea of control a distant, frigid afterthought. But her heat had an edge, because she knew something he didn’t. He might have hired her, but she had control. His power and status meant nothing against a pretty face and a forged tattoo. 

She knelt between his knees and ran her hands up his thighs, pressing against the muscle, feeling the strength he held in check. Her fingers reached for his fly. 

“No,” he said with a gasp, placing his hands atop hers. “Not that.” 

Their eyes met, an instantaneous question-and-answer that Hermione lost. It didn’t matter. She might have been a commodity, but she was still in control. She was taking something from him tonight. 

She straddled him, watching his eyes go wide as her dress rode up her thighs. She reached her arms behind her, breasts pushing forward until she found the zipper at her back. She lifted herself up onto her knees and pulled it over her head. Draco tracked the reveal of her body inch by inch — black lace panties, flat stomach, a matching lace brassiere. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. 

She flushed and settled onto his lap, trying to ignore the erection pressed against her thigh. She knew where the night ended. Knew it was unavoidable and knew better than to be nervous. Sex was biological, as natural as breathing, and she had learned to disconnect it from feeling. But she had not disconnected. That slip in control mere minutes ago had never fully righted, and the fact that Draco Malfoy sat beneath her, aroused and vulnerable, gave her a kind of high she hadn’t felt in years. 

He dipped his fingers beneath her waistband, gripping the flesh of her hips, and she rocked forward. He felt good beneath her, and his hands held her firmly, so that when he sat forward, leaning her back, she had no fear of falling. He dipped his head to her chest and kissed the side of her breast through the lace. 

“Do you consent?” 

Another strange comment. She steadied her breathing and tried to ignore it. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” 

He kissed her breast again and inhaled, tightening his grip on her hips. One hand twined its way into her hair. 

“Do you consent, _Granger_?” 

She launched herself away from him, shoving hard with her arms and legs, but his hand had fisted in her hair and the hand on her hip was now an arm wrapped around her waist. His fingers dug into the flesh of her abdomen, holding her tight, pinning her to him. 

“ _Finite_ ,” he growled, dismantling the charms on her hair and face. 

She shoved again, drew a hand back to strike him. He yanked down hard, and a cry tore from her throat as her head wrenched back. 

“Stay still,” he ordered. 

“Let me go.” 

“What was your plan here? Shag me rotten and rob me blind?” He tugged on her hair again. “ _Answer_.” 

“Something like that,” she said between clenched teeth. “You’re hurting me.” 

He let go of her hair and clamped both hands on her hips, pressing her down onto his thighs. She winced as she straightened her neck. His eyes were hard and uncompromising, dangerously aloof. How had she ever thought she could fool him? 

“How did you know?” 

“I asked if you went to Hogwarts, and you touched your hair. You were nervous. Hiding something. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what.” 

Her chin quivered. She had gambled and lost, and the consequences of what that meant began to settle over her. She tried to keep her voice steady. 

“What now?” 

He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if considering that himself. 

“You have two options. Option one: I incapacitate you and bring you to the Ministry. I file a report, and custody is transferred to Bellatrix Lestrange, the Minister of Security. You’ll be put on trial, found guilty of treason, and sentenced to death, but not before my aunt tortures you for every scrap of information you might possess about the resistance.” 

“There is no resistance.” 

“I know that. So does she. But do you think she’ll care, especially when the lie serves the Dark Lord’s narrative?” 

“And my second option?” 

“That depends on what you want and how far you’re willing to go to get it. And since I’ve already seen how far you’ll go…” 

Humiliation melted the steel inside of her. Draco was right: her desperation was obvious, and it gave him all the leverage he needed. 

“Papers. I need identification and travel papers so I can leave Great Britain. There’s a man in Brixton who could have —” She looked away from him, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling window and into the cloudy London night. “It hardly matters now.” 

“I can get them for you.” 

She tensed. The rumors she had heard about him suddenly felt less like fiction. 

“What?” 

“Entirely legal, not forgeries. The Dark Lord himself could inspect them and not find a mark out of place.” 

“What do you need from me?” 

“You have your wand?” 

“No. I lost it.” 

He squeezed her hips again. 

“Don’t break eye contact when you lie.” 

“Yes,” she said with an annoyed hiss. “It’s in my bag.” 

“Which is where?” 

“Inner cloak pocket.” 

“Good. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to let you go, you’re going to put on your dress, and I’m going to confiscate your wand. Then we’re going to discuss your future. If you attack me, I will turn you in without a second’s hesitation. You’re more than welcome to Disapparate or take the Floo, but you’ll be doing so without your handbag, which I imagine you would miss quite dearly. Are we understood?” 

She waited a moment, weighing her options, though they both knew she had none. 

“Yes.” 

Draco released his hold, and Hermione rolled off him. Cheeks burning, she pulled her dress over her head. She heard him chuckle softly. 

“Undetectable Extension Charm. Old habits, Granger?” 

She crossed her arms and kept her back to him, trying to find composure, but he was beside her before her most recent bout of embarrassment could fade. 

“I hardly notice the view anymore,” he said, almost to himself. His flat must have been near the top of a skyscraper, because the city looked like a drawing below them, a child’s atlas in black, grey, and navy. She felt the warmth of his hand between her shoulders, hovering just above her skin. “Come on.” 

She followed him into the kitchen. He slid a glass of water across to her across the marble island and leaned his elbows on the countertop. 

“Your papers will take a week to be processed. During that time, I would like you to accompany me to Italy. Your employment would begin —” he checked his watch “— today, October 13, and end on October 20. You will travel with me, stay with me, attend all required engagements, and behave in a way consistent with your assumed role as my companion.” 

“You want me to act like a pure-blood.” 

“Like a half-blood.” He gestured to her wrist, the one with the tattooed _H_. “Risky, that. Plenty of double agents posing as tattoo artists.” 

“I did my research.” 

“I’d expect nothing less.” Their eyes met as he let the compliment hang. “I don’t know how well versed you are on our foreign affairs, but Italy supports our cause.” 

“ _Your_ cause.” 

“ _Our_ cause,” he corrected. “If you let slip that you’re anything less than a half-blood, or if you show sympathy for the so-called _resistance_ , you’ll put us both in danger.” 

“Then why risk it? If I’m a liability, why not just give me the papers and send me on my way?” 

“Because that still leaves me in Italy for a week without a companion.” 

“Aren’t you dating a Greengrass?” 

“I was until about three hours ago.” 

Hermione bit back a snide comment and sat back in her chair. 

“And if I refuse?” 

“Then you leave without your handbag,” he repeated, “and I find another escort.” 

It was not much of a choice. 

“Fine.” She extended her hand. “One week, then you give me my papers and we never see each other again.” 

Draco took her hand. 

“One week,” he agreed. “You get your papers, and then we part forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lines from "Pretty Woman":
> 
> _"I say when. I say who. I say how much. I say when. I say who. I say how much."_
> 
> _“What do you do?"_  
>  _“Everything. But I don’t kiss on the mouth.”_  
>  _“Neither do I.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

What was he doing? 

The night ticked forward, and Draco could not conjure a reasonable answer. 

He was committing treason by not arresting her. And unlike the families he had smuggled out, who attracted no attention and would not be missed, the reappearance of the last surviving member of the Order of the Phoenix would not go unnoticed, even abroad. There would be an investigation, and the Dark Lord’s inquisitors would find the connection. 

Ivo’s parting words bubbled up from the well of his mind: _he will kill you_. 

Draco had never questioned that as true. Only the cause and timing were yet to be decided. 

And maybe the decision to help her was as simple as self-sabotage. Draco had money, power, and prestige. Twenty years ago, that might have been enough. But there had been a cost to it, images he could not unsee, sounds he could not unhear. Though he wanted to keep fighting — needed to, if he were honest with himself — he was also tired. World-weary in the truest sense. Helping Hermione out of the country was an ending he could live with, a fitting coda to his regret-ridden life. 

He twirled her wand around his fingers as he lay in bed. It felt like her — warm and flexible in his hands, but stubborn when used. He could not cast anything more complicated than a Lumos with it, and a weak one at that. The wand’s allegiance was unquestionably with its chosen witch. 

Was his allegiance with her, too? 

Dawn provided no answers. It did, however, give him an excuse to check on her. Hermione was still asleep, curled up against the arm of the sofa with her back pressed firmly to the rear cushions, despite it being extended to double its usual width. Her face was serene. She had aged well, despite what must have been a rough twenty years. Crow’s feet stamped the corners of her eyes and half-moons ringed the angles of her lips. Otherwise, she looked like the girl he had known. 

He left to shower and found Hermione in the kitchen when he returned. He traced the line of her legs, long and lean as she stood on tiptoe, reaching for a tea tin just beyond her fingers. Memory leapt at him. Her legs around his, the roll of her hips, the slow motion of seduction, so sensuous it had almost felt real… He cleared his throat. 

“Allow me.” 

She jumped and spun away, hands braced on the countertop as if preparing to run. He ignored her mistrust, retrieved the tin, and put the kettle on with a flick of his wand. 

“Don’t you have elves for this?” 

“Do you think tea is beyond my ability?” He saved her the trouble of a witty retort. “Lilac is busy at the moment. You’ll have to deal with my attempt.” 

“Part of me is surprised I’m still here.” 

“Why? We have a bargain.” 

“I know, but I’m still a…” 

She clutched her wrist, and Draco felt his heart constrict. It had taken him years to adjust to his Dark Mark, and he had taken it willingly. He set the kettle down. 

“I know I can’t ask you for your trust, but this week will be easier if we can at least achieve an understanding. I’m not going to hurt you or turn you in. Of all the things you have to fear, I’m not one of them.” 

She looked down at her twined fingers. He slid a saucer toward her. 

“I have to go into the office to prepare your paperwork. I want you to shop while I’m gone.” He twisted a bag of Galleons from thin air and set it next to her tea. “Italian designers only. Casual wear, a few cocktail dresses, at least one ball gown. Lucciola in London should give you a good start. Anything you can’t find there, we’ll pick up in Italy.” 

He studied her expression as she pulled the bag toward her. It contained less than what he made in a month and probably more than she had had her entire life. Opportunity brightened her eyes. He offered her wand handle-first. 

“I put a Trace on it,” he lied. The idea he saw forming disappeared in a blink. “Yours is one of the more recognizable designs I’ve seen.” 

“I know.” She set it next to the coin purse. “I don’t use it very often.” 

“A pity,” he agreed. “Your spell work was always impressive.” 

The comment earned him a sharp look, and he had to bite back a grin. He found her ability to be surprised endearing. It felt rare, like something to be protected and treasured. And for a week, it was his to enjoy. 

“Good luck today,” he said, walking past her toward the Floo. He felt her eyes follow him out. 

~*~*~

The Department of International Magical Cooperation was rarely empty. The few low-level employees working overtime to impress their superiors were more concerned with their own work than with anything nefarious Draco might be doing, but there was still cause for caution. Exemplary work was the hard way to ascend the departmental ranks; snitching on a non-compliant coworker was much faster. 

As such, Draco wore his most severe expression as he stormed off the Level 5 lift. Nearby staffers scattered, and Draco palmed his wand with a flick of his wrist. He trailed it along the threshold to Blaise’s office as he passed, and the forms slithered beneath the locked door with a whisper. They followed him down the short hallway like parchment Planaria, and by the time Draco had slammed his door, they were on his desk. 

He shrugged off his cloak and settled into his chair. The travel papers were relatively simple, only requiring a name, a date and city of birth, an address, and a photo. The identification form was several inches long and much more complicated. As a half-blood, Hermione would require three generations of magical lineage on either her maternal or paternal side. Draco summoned his family’s personal copy of the pure-blood register, picked up his quill, and set to work. 

Several hours and one blooming headache later, he had written her a convincing lineage of both German and English ancestors, including a few distant linkages with his own family through third and fourth cousins. All that remained was to attach a photo and submit the forms, along with a large sum of Galleons, to Blaise’s least ambitious, most avaricious underling. 

Back at his flat, he found Hermione on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her and a book in her lap. She wore the same revealing dress as last night and spared him a brief, disgusted look. The bag of Galleons sat on the glass coffee table, just as full as when he had given it to her. Annoyance picked at him. 

“When I give you a task, I expect it to be completed.” 

“When you give me a task worth doing, it will be.” 

“You do realize I’ve been orchestrating your _escape_ for the past four hours, yes? An escape that is contingent upon your purchase of appropriate clothing?” 

She slammed the book shut. 

“You don’t think I tried?” 

“Not very hard, apparently.” 

“Lucciola turned me away!” She stormed across the room and shoved her wrist at him. “They’re a _pure_ establishment. But you didn’t need to consider that, did you?” 

He bit back a retort and grabbed her by the wrist. 

“Let’s go.” 

He held her close as they spun through the London chimney system and swept from the hearth with a flare of his cloak and a stormy expression. The two women behind the counter straightened. 

“Which of you is the owner?” 

The women exchanged a look, and the blonde stepped forward, chin lifted high. 

“I am, sir. Miranda Aubert.” She held out a hand, which he ignored. She drew it back with a placid expression. “How may I assist you this evening?” 

Draco pointed back to the fireplace. 

“ _Her_. You may assist _her_.” 

Miranda gave him a condescending look. 

“Sir, this is a pure establishment.” With a look over his shoulder, she continued: “There are other establishments better suited to _her_ kind.” 

“ _Her_ kind,” he repeated, stepping closer. “May I see your hand, Miranda?” 

Her shoulders twitched with nerves, but she placed her hand in his nonetheless. Draco turned it over and pushed her sleeve back, revealing an embellished _H_. He traced a finger over it and felt her pulse flutter. 

“ _Your_ kind.” 

He dropped her hand and began to unbutton the cuff of his shirt. 

“Sir —” 

“Would you like to know my kind, Miranda?” 

She paled at the sight of his Dark Mark. The woman behind the counter gasped. And though he found no joy in wielding fear like a cudgel, it was an effective tool. 

“Ask me again.” 

Miranda tore her eyes away from his arm. 

“Sir?” 

“Ask how you may assist me this evening.” 

“How… How may I assist you this evening?” 

Draco pointed back toward the Floo. 

“You may assist _her_. Will this be a problem?” 

“No,” Miranda said, voice trembling. “No, sir.” She looked past Draco with tear-filled eyes and reached for Hermione with both hands. “Miss, please come in. What did you say you needed?” 

~*~*~

“Did you enjoy that?” Hermione asked bitterly. Waiting for them at his flat, sent ahead by Lucciola at no extra charge, were three full valises of new clothes. 

“Not particularly. Shopping was always my mother’s idea. I tolerated it because it meant a trip to Honeydukes at the end.” 

“I didn’t mean the shopping.” 

“I know what you meant.” Draco turned to face her. “What do you want me to say? At one point, yes, terrifying that woman into thinking she was going to lose her livelihood or her life would’ve been the high point of my week.” 

“And now?” 

“And now?” He trailed off with a grimace. “And now, maybe Machiavelli had it wrong.” 

She took a deep breath, as if preparing to argue, but Draco cut her off. 

“We don’t have time for this. I need your photo so that I can submit your paperwork tonight. Cast your charms.” 

As he conjured a camera, Hermione transformed into the pretty woman he had seen from across the room. She squared her shoulders and looked into the lens with a neutral expression as Draco snapped two quick photos. He lowered the camera. 

“What is it?” she asked after he stared for too long. 

He shook his head and smiled to himself. 

“Nothing. I just —” He reached out and touched lock of her hair, straight and streaked with blonde. “I prefer it curly.” 

She tilted her head, a soft, confused look playing across her features. Then her eyes hardened. She knocked his hand aside. 

“I don’t care what you prefer.” 

His smile persisted as she walked away from him. The rejection didn’t sting. Quite the opposite, in fact: the guileless play of emotions across her face had warmed him to bones. She was so thoroughly herself, so genuine, even as she disguised herself with charms. She reminded him of a firefly, a spark that lit and disappeared before he could pinpoint its location. He could chase after it for a lifetime and never catch it. Never catch _her_. He knew that. 

And yet, as he spent another half-sleepless night twirling her wand around his fingers, he couldn’t help but wonder what was possible. He wanted to understand her, to uncover the source of her resilience and see if he could tap the same well. What had made her fight for survival after the Order had been destroyed? What had kept her strong and sane during her years of sex work? Why had she risked her life to come home with him, knowing who he worked for and what it could mean for her? And why had it felt real for a moment, when she was on top of him? Why had it felt better than anything he and Astoria had ever shared? 

He needed to know. He needed to ask her. And somewhere near three a.m., he mustered the courage to do it. He opened the door to his bedroom, padded out into the hall, then paused. 

Hermione stood before the window, her body dimly illuminated by the faint light of the quarter moon. She stood still, arms crossed as if she were cold, and stared out onto the empty London streets. He saw the hazy reflection of her face in the glass and could not mistake look in her eyes. 

She was frightened. 

Anxiety pulled at her brows and the corners of her mouth, and Draco’s chest tightened. Guilt was a familiar emotion. It sat like a stone in his heart, and he carried it with him like a loyal man might carry an old dog. He was accustomed to its weight, comforted by it, even, because its existence proved his humanity. But looking at her shifted the stone. Made it sit a little heavier. Sink a little lower. 

He had taken advantage of her. He had used her need for his own gain and conned her into an agreement that could end them both. He had every right to risk his own life, but hers? And for what? 

It wasn’t for politics. Not really. He could have made any excuse to go to Italy alone, and he could have talked his way out of any consequences that came from the decision. In the end, it wouldn’t even matter if he were alone or with someone: the Italians would sign the agreement regardless. That’s what people would remember. 

It was for him. His reckless disregard for others when his own interests could be satisfied. His curiosity about her. His fear of the meager consequences of failure. It was selfish, cowardly, and, he realized with a bitter twist of his lips, perfectly in character. 

He thought he’d matured. Thought he’d grown past those flaws and into a man who tried to do good in a world full of bad. He was a fool to have believed it. 

He backed away slowly and returned to his bedroom. He owed her at least one last evening of peace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Hermione stormed from the lift, putting as much space between herself and Draco as possible. Her high heels sank into the hallway’s thick carpeting, and she stumbled. 

“Steady.” Draco’s hand brushed her elbow. She swatted him away. 

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. 

“Wait until we’re inside.” 

“Hurry up.” 

“Please, calm —” 

“Do _not_ tell me to _calm down_ ,” she snapped, shoving past him and into their shared suite. She stared him down as he closed and locked the door. “Is that why you were so keen to take me with you? So you could pass me around like some fascinating trinket you found on the street?” 

Draco's reply was slow and controlled. 

“I didn’t pass you around.” 

“Do you know what Rua said to me as we left?” 

Her stomach churned. Adelmo Rua, Draco’s counterpart for the Italian _ministro_ , had met them upon their arrival at the Hassler Roma. For hours, they had sat with him over drinks, discussing Quidditch, sailing, and market performance — subjects designed to circle the issue of policy without broaching it directly. Rather, he and Draco had conversed. She had sat silently, sipping at her cocktail and enduring the deadweight of Adelmo’s gaze and the suggestive turn of his lips as he ran his finger up and down the stem of his champagne flute. 

“I can guess.” 

“He said he hoped you were _willing to share_.” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “I am _not_ going to sleep with you, and I am _not_ going to sleep with Rua. You might have hired me for the week, but I’m not just some whore that you can pimp out to _sweeten the deal_.” 

The muscles in Draco’s jaw tightened. 

“Rua won’t touch you.” 

“Am I supposed to believe you’ll stop him?” 

“You don’t think I would?” 

“I think you’d choose your own self-interest over my well-being,” she snapped. “You’d never risk yourself or your reputation.” 

He closed the space between them, his restraint fraying like an old rope. 

“You don’t know what I’d risk,” he said with a hiss. “What I _have_ risked. For you. For people _like_ you.” 

_Crack_. 

Draco’s reaction was immediate. One moment she stood before him, glaring up at the fine angles of his cheeks and the sparking grey of his eyes. The next, shoved hard and held at his back in an unforgiving grip. He stood tall, wand aimed at the source of the noise: a house-elf clothed in a white, Roman-style toga. Her right ear had been cropped short by accident or intention, and she quailed beneath the glowing tip of Draco’s wand. She extended a shaking arm toward him, offering a scroll tied with a gold ribbon. 

Draco released his grip on her to take the parchment. 

“ _Grazie_.” 

The elf’s light brown eyes drifted over Draco’s left shoulder. Draco noticed, shifted, and kept her hidden behind the wall of his body. 

“Dismissed.” 

The elf bowed and disappeared. Draco dropped the note onto a side table and walked toward the windows, wand at his side. 

“Meet me in the bedroom.” 

“Excuse me?” She caught him by the shoulder and tugged. “We’re not through.” 

“No, we aren’t,” he agreed, rounding on her. 

She expected a resumption of their argument, but instead saw his brows drawn together, his eyes creased at the corners. A faint echo of his worry wrapped around her chest. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Go to the bedroom and close the door.” He took her hand. She flinched, tried to pull away, but his grip tightened and his eyes met hers with an urgency she didn’t understand. “Meet me in the bedroom.” He leaned in close, his nose brushing the shell of her ear. “I won’t ask again.” 

The cut of the threat held the warmth of a promise, and, for an insane moment, Hermione debated calling his bluff. His eyes, though. That look he gave her, concerned and serious. This wasn’t a time to test boundaries. 

Before she closed the door, she looked over her shoulder. Draco was walking the room’s perimeter, wand aimed at the skirting board and eyes narrowed in concentration. A knot of understanding untangled within her: whatever had just happened was not about her. 

After fifteen minutes, the bedroom door opened. She stood, hands twisting before her, anxious for something to do. 

“Draco?” 

He held one finger up, pointed toward the door, mimed it closed. She obliged, then watched as he surveyed the room, removed his shoes, and climbed onto the bed. He stood near the footboard at the room’s approximate center. Within his first few wand movements, she recognized the wards. 

Anti-Apparition. Imperturbable. Muffliato. 

He repeated the spells in the loo and walk in closet, then sheathed his wand. 

"We're being surveilled. The Italian government isn’t allowed to use hotel property for its own ends, so it conscripts the property of indebted patrons instead. That elf is named Tia. She belongs to Isabella Zabini.” 

A cold weight dropped into her stomach. Though Adelmo’s behavior had been repulsive, the argument over Draco’s responsibility in the matter seemed relatively unimportant when compared against the threat of discovery. He had every reason to protect her, every reason to keep her close. They were in this together. Allies. And though he hadn’t asked for her trust, he had it anyway. 

“How do you know?” 

“Because I’ve met her, and because my elf is doing the same thing with the Canadian Minister for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” 

“What do we do now?” 

Draco began to unbutton his shirt. 

“Nothing. The bedroom and _en suite_ are safe.” 

“Safe?” 

“No eavesdropping, no recording, no surprise visits. Not in here, at any rate.” 

“Won’t they be suspicious?” 

“A warded bedroom isn't uncommon — everyone is entitled to their privacy. The entire suite, however…" He punctuated the thought with a shrug. "If you've done nothing wrong, you've got nothing to hide. If you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear. I should have expected a move like this, especially from Rua. We need to assume that everything that happens beyond that door will be reported to the Italian Prime Minster and the Dark Lord.” 

He sat on the edge of the bed to strip his socks. 

“This doesn’t change anything.” 

He spared her a look. 

“Why would it? You’ve made your desires quite clear.” 

She shifted her weight and looked at the bed. Had she? 

“I’m going to do my best to keep Rua away from you, and I’m not going to touch you when we’re in private.” He rose, languid, graceful, his shirt falling open to reveal the lean lines of his chest. Her mouth went dry, and she looked stubbornly into his eyes. “But I can’t keep that promise when we’re in public. We have an alibi to maintain.” 

With aching slowness, he lifted his hands to her shoulders. She felt their weight like the pull of gravity, keeping her rooted when she threatened to float. 

“May I touch you here?” 

“Yes.” She could barely manage the answer. 

His hands shifted, moving down her arms, settling at her elbows, lighting her on fire. 

“Here?” 

She nodded, and Draco stepped closer. She swayed as his hands settled on her waist, his touch light. She remembered, unbidden, the way his fingers had dipped beneath her panties just two days ago, the feel of his skin and hers, the heat, the sensitivity she didn't know she possessed at her hips. Just a few more inches. He could keep going. 

"Here?" 

_Yes_. 

Common sense intervened. 

“No.” 

Draco's hands dropped, but she wasn’t able to breathe until she stepped away, the physical space between them freeing up oxygen and leaving her cold. 

He moved past her to the _en suite_. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to think about the mistake she’d been about to make or the liberties she was suddenly so comfortable giving him. 

And when they’d both finished their nightly routines, when Draco began pulling pillows off the bed and transfiguring bedroom bench’s cushion into a rough approximation of a mattress, Hermione chose to take her mistake a step further. Fingers curled into the sheets in her lap, she cleared her throat. 

“Draco, you don’t have to… The bed is big enough for us both.” 

He considered her, as if he could gauge her honesty by the expanse of the silence between him. Then, he nodded. 

The lights extinguished with a snap of his fingers, and she heard the susurrus of silk as he untied his robe and let it fall to the floor. She felt the depression of the mattress to her right, heard the rustle of sheets against his body. The smell of him, clean and close, mint and clove, was too reminiscent of sixth year to examine without undoing years of assumptions. 

She lay back, shoulders stiff against the pillow, and tried for a deep breath. They were separated by enough space for a third person, but Hermione swore that she could feel warmth radiating from his body. What could he feel, from his side of the bed? The thrum of her heart against her ribcage? The tension in her limbs as she held herself rigid, too nervous to relax? 

His even breathing gave her the answer. The anxiety she felt was not shared. And that was a good thing. Draco wasn’t attracted to Hermione Granger, after all. He was attracted to Vivian Ward. Hermione was an unwelcome surprise, a traitor, and a Mudblood. She was everything he wasn’t and nothing he would ever want. 

It better that way. Simpler. More logical. 

And if she kept repeating it, maybe she would start to believe it. 

~*~*~

Of all the ways she had imagined waking next to Draco, alone had not been one of them. But when her eyes opened, that’s what she was. Their gazes met in the vanity mirror. He had already showered and dressed for the day. 

“The note Tia delivered last night was an invitation for a tour of some of Italy's more exclusive exports — racing brooms, marabbecca scale, and wine. We’ll be traveling with Adelmo, his wife Livia, and a few aides.” He ran his fingers through his hair, flicking the fine platinum strands across his forehead. “We leave in an hour.” 

She pulled the sheet up with her as she sat. 

“When were you going to wake me?” 

He paused, met her eyes once more. 

“Honestly, I'm not sure.” 

With a final flick, he left the room. Forty minutes later, she joined him at the dining table. He greeted her with a warm smile. 

“Good morning, Vivian.” 

Her alias — a subtle reminder that they were being observed. 

“Good morning. I'm looking forward to the tour,” she lied, helping herself to caffe latte and biscotti. “Will it last all day?” 

“I believe so.” 

“Will we be Portkeying?” 

Draco sipped his coffee with a strange look, as though fighting a grin. 

“No.” 

And when they met Adelmo in the hotel’s courtyard, Draco’s expression made perfect, horrible sense. 

Brooms. 

Two two-seaters, polished to a high shine and trimmed with brass backrests and footholds, hovered above the stone pavers. 

“The newest models,” Adelmo said, skimming his fingers over a handle. “The finest in Italian luxury.” 

Hermione felt her stomach turn as he rattled off the brooms’ statistics. Most of it was empty jargon to her, but two numbers stood out: zero to sixty in 4.1 seconds and a top speed of 122 miles per hour. 

“There are cushioning and shielding charms,” Draco muttered, shifting close. “You won’t even feel the speed.” 

She breathed a sick little laugh. 

“Perhaps _la signorina_ would like to fly with me,” Adelmo ventured. “My wife has seen the countryside many times and is no doubt tired of my narration.” 

Hermione doubted that was all Adelmo’s dead-eyed wife was tired of. Still, she put on a polite smile and tried not to look ill. 

“No, thank you, Minister.” 

“I must insist. We will by flying over many historical areas, which I know will be of interest to a bright woman such as yourself.” 

“While I appreciate the offer, I must refuse,” she repeated, putting some ice into her tone. “I’m not a great flier, so I fear your stories would be lost on me.” 

“Even more reason. I will take the utmost care. You will never feel safer than in my arms.” 

“Minister —” 

“Vivian flies with me, Rua,” Draco cut in. 

Adelmo gave him an appraising look, as if he were resizing an adversary. 

“Very well,” he said with an oily smile. “Shall we mount up?” 

Hermione felt the heat of Draco’s hand at her back. 

“May I —” 

“I don’t care where you touch me,” she whispered, failing to control her growing panic. “Just make sure I don’t fall off.” 

“You won’t fall,” he promised. He braced the broom as she swung her right leg over and found her balance. Draco kept a hand on her shoulder as he mounted up behind her. Her breath hitched as he leaned in. She could feel the strength of his chest as it pressed against her back. 

“Feet up.” His voice was a low hum in her ear. His hands teased hers out of their death grip on the handle. “Thumb knuckles toward the sky, elbows in. Keep your eyes open — you’re less likely to get sick that way.” 

Adelmo’s broom shot off from in front of them, streaking like a golden comet over the streets of Rome and into the cloudless blue sky. 

“Draco, please…” She was not sure what she was asking for, what the tremors in her voice and body might have earned her aside from his pity. Maybe his pity was enough. 

“Hold on tight.” 

The broom’s acceleration pushed her into the seat and lodged a scream in her throat. She fought the instinct to close her eyes as they gained altitude and sped to catch up with Adelmo. Draco’s arms pressed against her shoulders. 

“You’re okay,” he said. “I’ve got you.” 

~*~*~

Hermione steadied herself on Draco’s arm as she dismounted. They had been flying for hours, and the uneven gravel drive provided scant cushioning for her tired legs. She wobbled, and immediately his hand was at her elbow. And even though they had been in almost constant contact for the entire day, his touch still sent a spark through her, like a jolt of unchanneled, unexpected magic. 

He felt it, too. It was in his eyes, the way his hand conformed to the curve of her arm, the way his body angled toward her even when they were on the ground. The breeze toyed with her hair, curling a blonde strand across her forehead. Draco swept it away, tucked it behind her ear, rested his hand on the back of her neck. He lowered his head. He was going to kiss her. 

“Still okay?” 

Her stomach flipped. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. 

“Yes. We’re almost done.” 

“Almost.” 

“Welcome to Dioli Vineyards,” Adelmo said brusquely, pushing between them. He marched down the drive, trailing after Livia, who was already over halfway to the villa at its end. 

From above, the southern Tuscan vineyards resembled a quilt, rhomboid patches in shades of green and yellow stitched together with the silver thread of rivers, the dark green of trees, and grey paved roads. From the ground, the vineyards rolled around them like a verdant ocean in the late afternoon sunshine. The shushing of the branches and the faint creaks of the vines in the breeze made Hermione feel as though she were on a ship. She closed her eyes and inhaled the sharp, chlorophyllic scent of living things and the round, pungent scent of mineral-rich earth. 

“First time in Italy?” 

Her eyes drifted back to Draco’s. He had been watching her. 

“Is it obvious?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is it a problem?” 

“No.” He held out his hand to her. “It's charming. The winemaker will love you for it.” 

“Have you met him?” 

“No, but his wines are famous throughout wizarding Italy. It’s taken them years to expand their market share.” 

“Production problems?” 

Draco shook his head. 

“Artificial scarcity. If everyone could get a bottle of Dioli wine, it wouldn’t be worth having.” 

“Wine as a status symbol.” 

“As it’s always been, so stop sneering,” he said with a gentle squeeze of her hand. 

“Is it worth the cost, at least?” 

He grinned at her. 

“That’s for you to decide.” 

The villa, with its squared-off lines, red-tiled roof, and intricately curved ironwork, looked like something from a postcard. The man who flung its doors wide looked as if he, too, had been quarried and pieced together with similarly meticulous detail. He inclined his head in greeting. 

“Welcome, _Ministro_ , _cara_ Livia.” He kissed Livia’s cheek, then extended a hand to Draco. “ _Signore_ Malfoy, welcome to my vineyard. And this is?” 

“Vivian Ward,” Hermione said, not waiting for the introduction. 

Draco swallowed a laugh. The winemaker raised an eyebrow but took her hand. His skin was cool and dry. 

“Luca Dioli.” 

“Your vineyards are beautiful, _Signore_. Thank you for hosting us today.” 

His square face cracked with the first hint of a smile. 

“It is my pleasure.” Then, addressing the group at large: “We will start with the winery itself, then the fields, then a tasting. I have a barrel of Brunello di Montalcino that will remind you of why Italian wines are the best in the world.” 

The villa’s interior was as open and sun-drenched as the fields. Luca led them through arched hallways of pale stone, past tastefully decorated rooms, and near a kitchen that smelled like freshly baked bread. He stopped at a dead end. 

“This land has been producing grapes since the 1800s, and my family has worked it for just as long. We have withstood wars, droughts, pestilence, theft, betrayal, and counterfeits, yet the Dioli name has always carried a reputation for exceptional wine. With that reputation comes jealousy. This is natural, but we have had to create security structures to protect our assets.” 

He withdrew his wand and, with a series of quick flicks, the wall behind him turned partially transparent. Hermione’s skin prickled as she walked through it. 

“The _Ministero_ has graciously cast their proprietary protection wards over my home and fields. I am notified at once when visitors arrive, expected or not. The brew area is similarly guarded. I only trust my family with the location of my wine vault, and I do not trust many of them.” His voice held no trace of mirth. 

They turned the corner into a room three stories tall. Stainless steel equipment shone in the ambient light, sorting lines and presses, fermentation tanks and bottling stations. Empty oak barrels were stacked in the corner like a pyramid to Bacchus. 

“Muggle equipment?” Hermione asked. 

“The art is ancient and our vines are old, but the process has changed over time,” Luca explained with a smile. “Not having magic has forced Muggles to invent new ways of operating, of improving.” He rested a hand on a tank. “These machines have increased my yield and decreased my processing time, yet I have not changed the bottle price. My bottom line has increased year-on-year since their installation.” 

“Impressive.” Draco turned to Adelmo. “The _Ministero_ supports this?” 

“The _Ministero_ supports all ideas that enhance productivity and ease the burden of work from Italy’s citizens.” 

“And technology is not all the Muggles have given us,” Luca said. 

They walked through a second transparent wall, exiting at the villa’s rear. Hermione noticed movement in the distant field, white hats dipping above and below the wavy line of green and brown. She shaded her eyes with her hands and squinted. 

“Labor.” 

She could hear the smile on Luca’s voice, and the bright October day seemed to darken. Draco gripped her elbow as they approached a group of about three dozen Muggles. They moved slowly up the rows. Each carried a pair of clippers and wore an enormous wicker backpack. Some glanced back at them — quick, darting looks that were at once frightened and defiant, like their satisfied curiosity was worth whatever punishment they risked. Most, however, kept their heads down, diligently pruning their vines. They tossed the fruit into their backpacks with a practiced motion. 

“Criminals, mostly,” Adelmo explained. “Some troublemakers, some homeless, some immigrants with no documentation and nowhere else to go.” 

The Muggles were painfully thin, their skin burned red and brown. Their clothes were tattered, wearing thin at the shoulders from the constant friction of the straps. The man in her row shifted his pack, revealing a patch of skin between his neck and shoulder rubbed a bright, raw red. She gasped, and the worker — a young girl, she realized now, with a fine-boned face and chapped lips — looked up from her vine. Her eyes were wide and dark, and Hermione felt something in her shake loose at the depths of sadness they contained. 

“They live off-site and are bused in daily at Luca’s expense depending on his needs,” Adelmo continued. “They harvest from dawn until dusk with four, fifteen-minute breaks and thirty minutes for lunch. The ones who are not wards of the state are compensated with a flat daily fee and may earn a bonus if they exceed their kilogram quota.” 

“Do you feed them?” 

Draco’s fingers tightened around her elbow, his warning far too late. Not that it would have stopped her. If Adelmo noticed her sharper than normal tone, he gave no sign. Just a condescending smile, as if her question was one a child might ask. 

“No, Vivian. We do not feed them.” 

“You should.” 

Adelmo and Luca exchanged a look. The pressure on her elbow increased. Hermione pulled away from Draco’s grip to face Luca squarely. 

“Are all the grapes harvested on time? Do you have any waste?” 

“Some,” Luca conceded. 

“Enough to make a difference in your bottom line?” 

He shot Adelmo another look. 

“It all makes a difference, my dear.” 

“Your workers are skin and bones. It’s a miracle some of them are standing, let alone harvesting.” She looked at the young girl, who tried hard to disguise her eavesdropping. “If you fed them, you would get more out of them. You would end the season with less grape waste and more Galleons in your vault.” 

The winemaker considered her, head cocked. 

“Any profit gain would be offset by the cost of their food for the year.” 

She thought she heard some calculation in his voice. A note of cajoling, perhaps. She answered him with a skeptical look. 

“You only need to feed them for a season, not the year. But if it’s truly a concern for you, perhaps Minister Rua would be willing to create a program to subsidize the cost of their food. After all,” she finished with a glance at Adelmo, “the _Ministero_ supports all productivity-enhancing ideas.” 

Silence fell heavy among the group save for the rustling of vines and the snip of shears. Then, Luca laughed, a single, soft sound. His light brown eyes shone with mirth as he looked at Adelmo. 

“We will meet next week to discuss further, yes?” 

The minister looked as though he had swallowed an insect. 

“Of course,” he answered, a bitter twist to his lips. “I look forward to it.” 

~*~*~

Hermione lowered herself into the tub, wincing as the hot water slid up her calves and thighs. The sting was necessary; they had dismounted thirty minutes ago and she could already feel her legs and lower back stiffening. She sank into the lavender-scented bubbles and let her head fall back against the rolled towel, moaning as the charmed water jets pulsed against the pressure points on her back. 

Just as she began to drift, Draco knocked. 

“Yes?” 

The doorknob twisted. She recoiled, sending a small wave of water and soap onto the floor. 

“I didn’t say you could come in!” 

“I’m not coming in. I just want to talk, and I didn’t want to do it through the door.” 

“It couldn’t wait?” 

Draco kept his eyes averted as he lowered himself to the floor, pressing his back against one jamb and his feet against the other. His knees tented, pulling the hem of his trousers up enough to reveal several inches of ankle. 

“I’ve ordered supper.” 

“Thanks. I’m glad you declined Rua’s invitation tonight. I don’t think I could’ve handled one more minute with him.” 

“I think the feeling was mutual. You put him in a difficult situation today.” 

“He has a meeting next week,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I’d hardly call that difficult.” 

“Does Rua strike you as a man who enjoys work?” 

“Certain aspects of it, maybe. The control, the power.” 

“He doesn’t like to give without getting. You didn’t endear yourself to him today.” 

“I wasn’t trying to.” 

Draco lifted his hands in a placating gesture. 

“I wasn’t saying you should, but we still have a few days left here. You’ll need to be careful around him. More careful than usual,” he amended at Hermione’s incredulous huff. 

“Rua doesn’t scare me.” 

“He should.” 

If Draco felt the weight of her glare, he didn’t show it. 

“It was brave, what you did today,” he ventured after a minute of silence. 

Guilt twisted inside her chest. She looked down at the velvety cloud of bubbles, watched as it shrank. 

“No, it wasn’t. Brave would’ve been hexing the lot of you and freeing those Muggles.” 

“I think that crosses the line into stupidity.” 

“Maybe they’re the same thing. Maybe the world needs a brave, stupid person to do something rash.” 

They lapsed into another silence. 

“Why sex work?” 

Hermione shifted, stretching her legs beneath the water. She’d known the question was coming. It was natural to be curious; sex work was miles away from what anyone, herself included, expected. That didn’t make answering any easier. At least there was distance between them. It spared her the obligation of looking into his eyes. 

“I should have died, you know. In that raid on Grimmauld Place nineteen years ago.” 

Draco’s head twitched. 

“You weren’t there.” 

“I was. Ron and I had had a fight. Another fight — I don’t even remember what it was about anymore, we had so many in the years after Harry died. I went out into the back garden to get some air.” 

The tub’s warm water seemed to vanish around her as she was transported back to that night. She felt the chill of the November evening and the scratch of the wool sweater she had grabbed on her way out. Saw the dead weeds, the rime of frost on cracked paving stones, the dark sky through patchy clouds. Smelled ozone, sawdust, smoke. 

“The initial blast threw me off my feet, and I landed near the back fence. I saw the house start to collapse. It was like the walls were made of paper, the way they buckled…” 

“Modified Reductor. It targeted the wood.” 

She paused for a moment, let the new information color her memory a shade darker. 

“That makes sense. I’d always wondered.” 

“Hermione…” 

“I ran. They were screaming for help, but you were coming, so I ran. I tried the country for a while, but it was too empty. I couldn’t get lost there. So I came back to the city. I’ve worked in teashops and factories. A bookstore once, but it got burned down for selling banned literature. I was doing fine until you passed the Purity Papers Permit.” 

“That was Rabastan’s idea. I tried to talk him out of it.” 

“Doesn’t make a difference.” 

Hermione flicked the water with her fingers, trying to quell her resentment. She had seen policies ruin lives before. Had witnessed young witches and wizards ripped from their Muggle parents’ arms for no crime other than existing. Had walked past Muggle ghettos, where the tenants were dirty and starving, stooped and dead-eyed from a day’s hard labor. She had thought, foolishly, that she had avoided the worst of it. She’d been wrong; the worst simply hadn’t caught up to her yet. 

“I quit before my employer could ask about my blood status. I had a few months of expenses saved, but no one would hire me without papers. When my money ran out, I had to make a choice: find a job that didn’t require papers, or homelessness.” She affected a shrug. “This is what I chose.” 

“I’m sor—” 

“Don’t. I don’t want your pity. I made a choice. I’ve accepted it. Besides, an apology without action is about a useful as a bird with its wings clipped. It may look nice, but it’s never going to go anywhere.” 

“What do you expect from me?” 

The question was so sad it almost made her laugh. She shook her head, incredulous. 

“You still haven’t learned? Even after all this time?” 

He shot her a look somewhere between disbelief and anger. 

“It’s not about what other people expect from you. It’s what you expect from yourself. People expected you to be an arrogant, spoiled brat, so you were. People expected you to be a follower, so you are.” 

“Do you think that’s all I am?” 

“If even half of the rumors I’ve heard about you are true, I know it’s not. It _can’t_ be. What I can’t figure out is why _you_ think it is.” 

He looked away first, lips curled into a soft sneer, hands fisted by his sides. 

“You don’t know what I’ve seen, what I’ve —” 

She rolled her eyes and swept a wave of water at him. He shot to his feet, spluttering and staring down at his soaked shirt. 

“What the hell!” 

“Oh, come off it,” she scolded. “I know _exactly_ what you’ve seen and done. I’ve been on the opposite side of it for 27 years. I’ve been the effect to your cause ever since Hogwarts, so don’t paint yourself as some inscrutable anti-hero because you want to assuage your guilt. You’re the _villain_ in this story, and you’ll remain the villain until you decide you’re not.” 

“I’ve done everything in my power to help you!” 

“And what about everyone else?” He stepped back as she gestured wide, flinging another spray of water across the floor. “We’re beaten! All the Order members have been killed or worse, and You-Know-Who’s government has so thoroughly oppressed its people that no one is fighting. Any hope we have needs to come from within his administration.” 

“From me.” 

“For lack of a better option, yes! You have an opportunity to make a difference.” 

“One person can’t topple an entire regime,” he snapped. “That’s a fairy tale, and you’re naïve for believing in it.” 

She tore her eyes away from him and drew her knees to her chest. 

“Better to try for a fairy tale than to just accept the evil in the world.” 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

“Maybe I don’t,” she said, her tone as bitter as willow bark. “Maybe I’m wrong about you.” 

“You’re —” 

The crack of house-elf Apparition cut him off. His shoulders stiffened, and whatever fire had been kindling within him guttered out. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting your bath. I’m going down to the lobby bar for a drink. Don’t wait up for me.” 

He closed the door on her, but any hope she had of settling back into the bath was gone. Her mind buzzed with anger, with all that she had left unsaid. She leapt from the tub and threw on a robe. 

“Draco, wait.” 

She couldn’t have been more than a minute behind him, but both the bedroom and living space were empty. She wrapped her arms around her middle, feeling a little lost. He’d actually left her. For the first time in days, she was alone, free to do what she wanted. Which was unfortunate, because what she wanted to do was yell at him until he understood the force of his untapped potential. 

She held onto her irritation like a lifeline and enjoyed the evening just to spite him. But when the clock struck midnight, her resentful glee fizzled. 

He’d left her, and he hadn’t come back. 

A lone receptionist slouched at the front desk, giving her only a passing look before turning back to her magazine. The looks she received at the bar lingered, but Draco’s was not among them. A few melancholy notes drifted through the lobby, picked out haltingly on a piano. Without knowing how, she knew it was him. 

Draco sat hunched over the bench, his fingers skimming the keys and applying pressure without pattern. He didn’t seem to notice her. Didn’t acknowledge her at all until she slid a hand onto his shoulder. He lifted a hand from the keys and put it over hers, wrapping her fingers in his. 

“It’s late,” he mumbled. “You should be sleeping.” 

“So should you.” 

He let his head hang. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” 

She looked over her shoulder. She knew better than to believe they were alone. 

“Not here.” 

“I expect more from myself. I always have.” 

“Draco, don’t —” 

“You’re right about me.” 

Unfocused eyes met hers, then drifted away. 

“I know.” She leaned down close to him. “Let’s go upstairs, Draco. Please.” 

For a moment, she thought he might argue. Then he nodded and stood, the piano making a discordant sound as he caught his balance on the keys. He slung an arm around her waist. 

After an unsteady walk through the hotel, she kicked the bedroom door closed and lowered him onto the bed. He sagged forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

“Hermione.” 

She knelt before him to unlace his shoes. 

“How much did you drink?” 

She froze as he brushed his fingers across her cheek and into her hair. 

“ _Finite_.” The tension in his brow eased, and he leaned forward. Hermione’s heart raced as his forehead pressed against hers. “I’ve always loved your hair. Always wanted to touch it. Never had the chance…” He released a shuddering breath as he twined his fingers through her curls. “I never knew…” 

She rested her hands on his forearms. It would be so easy to fall into him. A lift of her chest, a tilt of her chin. That was all it would take for her lips to meet his. But once they touched, she was afraid they would never stop. And though desire tugged at her, and the whisper of inevitability scorched the space between them, the timing had to be right. 

Gently, she pushed down on his forearms. His fingers loosened, dropped, and she pulled away from him. 

“Did you pack a Sober-Up?” 

He nodded and gestured toward his bag. She plucked a small, poppy-pink vial from his travel potions’ case and pressed it into his hands. He thumbed the cork, tipped the contents into his mouth, and swallowed. Then he doubled over. 

“Hate that potion,” he moaned, arms curled over his stomach. 

She did, too. The side effects were short-lived, but severe. She sometimes wondered if it was worth taking at all. 

“Fainting, vomiting, or headaches?” 

“Headaches.” 

“Lucky you. It makes me vomit.” 

He gave her a bleary, wincing look. She dimmed the candles until the room was bathed in a gentle, orange ambience. While Draco fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, Hermione ran a washcloth under cool water. When she returned, he had stripped down to his shorts and lay on the bed with his palms pressed to his eyes. He flinched when she set the cloth on his forehead, then lowered his hands. 

“Thank you. Shouldn’t last much longer.” 

She watched his pain recede with each breath. After five minutes, she set the washcloth on her nightstand. 

“Better?” 

“Getting there.” 

“Good enough to sleep?” 

“Yes.” 

She extinguished the lights and changed into her pajamas, navigating the room by touch and memory. She crawled into bed and turned over, her back to him. 

“May I hold you?” 

Something in her chest squeezed tight. The last person to hold her — _really_ hold her — had been Ron. She had loved him with the reckless passion of youth and the very real fear of her own demise, and when he died, part of her had, too. She remembered feeling numb for months, viewing the world as if through a thick gauze, her infrequent moments of clarity accompanied by breathless grief. The gauze had thinned over time, the grief whittled down to an occasional ache. The numbness remained, a feeling of unreality, like she was disconnected from everything and everyone. 

Draco threatened connection. 

Over the days they’d spent together, he’d offered countless opportunities for it. Every touch was an invitation, every conversation a foundation upon which they could build. But at what cost? Anything they created would be destroyed when she left. Even if she stayed, they could never survive it. Not in their world. 

But maybe the transience made it safe, mitigated the risk enough so that their inevitable separation didn’t bring crushing pain with it. Maybe she could allow herself to feel something for a night. For a week. 

“Yes.” 

She shut her eyes as Draco closed the space between them and draped an arm across her waist. His chest moved against her back with each inhale, and his hips cradled hers, warming her from head to toe. She released a shuddering breath. 

It didn’t make sense for her to want him. It didn’t make sense for her to want anyone; desire was a luxury she couldn’t afford. But Draco was different. They shared a past and an intimate understanding of who they had been as young adults. Being with him now was like sweet nostalgia, a chance to acknowledge what could have been and live, even temporarily, the life she deserved. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

“I’m fine,” she answered. 

It was at least halfway true.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Draco's eyes drifted to the wall clock. Ten minutes and they would adjourn. It was their third day of meetings, each more useless than the last. He had not needed to shake hands with Adelmo’s entire department or listen to his speech about how the Italy everyone _knows and loves_ was disappearing. He had not needed a reminder of the country’s import and export power or a detailed history of their trade with the United Kingdom. 

And he had certainly not needed this day-long affair to discuss what was essentially a tit-for-tat agreement between their governments. Draco’s undersecretary, a man ten years his junior, had done all the negotiating well in advance of the trip. Yet Draco was nevertheless subjected to a lengthy presentation regarding the logic behind the new policies. Why these items, why these amounts, why these prices… 

Draco didn’t care. 

He never truly had; Minister of Foreign Trade was not the job he would have chosen for himself in any administration, much less one with which he disagreed. But he had at least given a token effort. There had been nothing more pressing to capture his attention. 

Now there was. 

His gaze drifted toward the window next. Hermione was out there somewhere, enjoying the Italian sunshine with Adelmo’s wife. They had sailed off the Amalfi coast on Tuesday and explored the museums of Florence on Wednesday. She had returned to him each night with a light in her eyes and stories to tell. 

He wanted that. 

He wanted to see her experience something that mattered and live the story she would later remember. He wanted to experience joy. And laughter, and hope, and it all felt possible with her. It was something in her eyes, a wild belief in the goodness of people — in the goodness of _him_ — that struck as quick and smart as a whip. Every time they touched, it was like the world realigned. Like the choices he’d made and the horrible things he’d done had been a dream. Escape was ingrained in her skin, just a touch away. 

And that was the complication. 

She had shown him the dream, and now he _wanted it_. Not just her body, not just her heart, but her ideal. A better version of himself and a better world to come with it. 

It was impossible. The risk should he fail was too great to bear. 

It was aspirational. She didn’t think he would. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” 

Draco looked at his undersecretary. 

“What do you think?” 

He thought he’d known the calculation for opportunity cost. Now he wasn’t so sure. 

“Send the write-up to my suite. I'll look it over and let you know tomorrow.” 

“We have no meetings scheduled for tomorrow,” Adelmo said. 

“We’ll sign the final papers at the farewell ball.” 

Draco stood. Adelmo rose with him. 

“ _Signore_ Malfoy, we are not finished.” 

“We are, Mr. Rua. Gentlemen.” 

Draco arrived to an empty suite. He loosened his tie and called for Tia, who appeared with her customary bow. 

“Where is Miss Vivian?” 

“Shopping with Miss Livia, sir.” 

“Did she say when she’d return?” 

“No, sir.” 

As if on cue, the door opened. Draco shot to his feet. 

“Dismissed,” he said, and the elf disappeared. 

Hermione — Vivian, with her hair long and blonde, her face made up to be unrecognizable — stepped through the door with several large bags. She paused when he saw him, expression uncertain. 

“Hi.” 

He couldn’t help but smile. 

“Hi.” He started forward, reaching for her bags. “Let me.” 

“Oh, okay.” She handed a garment bag off to him. “Livia insisted. We met for lunch, and she mentioned a ball tomorrow night, and I didn’t have a dress, so I used some of the Galleons you gave me, and—” 

“There’s no need to apologize.” He tugged at the garment bag’s zipper, caught a glimpse of red before her hand covered the gap. 

“No peeking.” 

Her playful grin made his heart skip. Inspiration struck with its next belated beat. 

“Let’s leave Rome. We have a free night tonight and nothing until late tomorrow.” 

“We can just leave?” 

“We can do whatever we want.” He took her hand. “Whatever _you_ want.” 

She looked down at their joined hands, brows furrowed in uncertainty. 

“What’s gotten into you?” 

He barely stopped himself from blurting it out, the truth, right where she could see it. 

_She_ had gotten into him. And if there was a way to remove her, he didn’t want to know it. 

“I want a change in scenery, and I want it with you.” 

Her breath hitched. He stepped closer. 

“What do you miss?” he asked quietly. “If you had one night, what would you do? Where would you go?” 

Her eyes shone as she answered. 

“The theater. I would go to the theater.” 

~*~*~

The _Real Teatro di San Carlo_ was the oldest theater in the world. Five stories of seats shone gold in the Muggle lights. The velvet chairs and polished oak floors were so diligently maintained that one would never guess that patrons had been using them for over 280 years. A heavenly scene spanned the frescoed ceiling: Minerva, radiating light and surrounded by the Muses, being presented the world’s greatest poets by Apollo. 

Hermione outshone it all. The theater’s crowded lobby seemed to part before her, a goddess in a deep, burnished gold, as regal as Minerva herself. She hardly seemed to notice the stares. She walked beside him, her hand on his arm and her head on a swivel. He saw the theater’s beauty through her eyes, breathed it with every quiet gasp. 

_La Traviata_ , likewise, could not hold his attention, and his eyes slipped from the story before him to the one beside him. She was immersed in it, living the tale as only one who was born to love opera could. Her breath rose and fell with the music, shoulders and fingers tensing and relaxing as the soprano’s voice soared. 

When the final note had faded and the electric lights came on, Draco made no attempt to hide his fixation. She dashed her tears away and turned to him. 

“What did you think?” she asked. 

There was only one possible answer. 

“It was beautiful.” 

Then her lips were on his, warm and tender, and Draco was lost to her. One hand was in her hair, the other cupping her cheek, pulling her close and forgetting where he was until she pushed him away with a firm hand on his chest. He saw a reflection of himself in her eyes, desirous and desperate for connection. 

“I don’t want to go back to Rome tonight,” she said. 

“Then we won’t.” 

They booked a room at the first hotel they saw. Draco hardly remembered the journey to their suite. There were searing looks across the cramped lift interior and agonizing impatience as an elderly couple tottered down the hallway ahead of them. He had fumbled with the Muggle key card until she took it from him with a curse. The hotel room door slammed shut behind him, and then he was lost again. Heat, teeth, the press of the doorknob against his lower back as Hermione pinned him against it. 

“ _Finite_ ,” he growled. The fizzling satisfaction of the decaying spells sparked around his fingers as he struggled to pull the pins from her hair. She batted his hands away and took over, allowing him to explore the curves of her body and find the catch of the zipper at her back. 

“May I?” 

“Yes.” 

Her breath caught as he trailed warm fingers down the skin of her back and spread his hands over the swell of her hips. A shrug of her shoulders freed the dress, which landed on the floor with a soft sigh. He took a moment to look at her, at the wonder of her body — its strength, its softness, its ability to be both capable and delicate. Then he looked into her eyes, wary, even after all this time, of his judgment. 

“You’re beautiful.” He kissed her neck, nibbled the tender skin of her collarbone as her head rolled back. “So beautiful.” 

“Draco…” 

She captured his lips, and he carefully walked her back to the bed. She shifted herself onto the mattress, resting on her elbows to watch him strip. It made him feel vulnerable, to have her attention so singularly focused. What did she feel when she saw his Dark Mark, the black ink so prominent against his pale skin? Could she feel his shame? He clenched his fist, moved to cover it with his other hand. She reached out to stop him. 

“It’s you. It’s not _all_ of you.” 

Her earnest eyes quelled his fear, and he leaned forward to kiss her. Inches separated their bodies, and Draco could feel the heat between them, a quiet blaze of embered desire. He broke away from her mouth, trailed kisses down her neck and collarbone, her chest, the space between her breasts. 

He nuzzled at the side of one, pressed his lips into the fabric of her brassiere. So similar to that first night, when she had known who he was and had gone home with him regardless. She had crawled on top of him and moved with abandon, like she had wanted him. Like he had wanted her. But unlike that first night, the feel of her breast through lace was not enough. He braced himself on one arm and ran a hand down the length of her side. 

“May I?” 

She nodded, and with a muttered word, Draco vanished her brassiere. He lowered his mouth over one rosy nipple and sucked. She gasped, her hips thrusting upwards and her hands fluttering against his shoulders. 

“Draco…” 

He paused, released his mouth. Had he misunderstood? He looked a question at her, but she didn’t see it, her head thrown back and eyes closed in pleasure. She moaned as the cool air hit her skin. 

“Don’t stop.” 

He laved one nipple, then the other, making her moan and tremble with only his lips, tongue, and teeth. The power over her was sweet, but nothing was sweeter than her pleasure, than the arch of her hips and the gentle sounds of satisfaction blossoming in the dark. 

She sighed as he released her and traveled down her body with his lips. He stopped at the hem of her panties. 

“May I?” 

She lifted her hips. Draco hooked his fingers around the waistband and tugged the lingerie down her legs. She flicked them off with a graceful kick of her foot, then tented her knees. Draco looped his arms around her thighs and breathed. 

She smelled like the ocean, all salt and sweat and sweet musk, and her entire body jerked as he nosed her thigh. He pressed a gentle kiss to her skin, smiling as her breath caught. He took his time, leaving not one inch of her skin untasted, before darting his tongue out against her clit. She jerked again, releasing a primal hiss of pleasure as she lifted her hips. He met the rise of her mons with his lips and pressed her back into the mattress. 

She trembled beneath him as he licked and sucked, flicked and nibbled, all while the tension in her body built. He could sense it in the muscles of her thighs, hear it in the quickness of her breath, the shallow, sighing exhales and the sharp, staccato inhales, feel it in the press of her fingers against his shoulder and the tug of her grip in his hair. 

He brought her to the peak, but only she had the power to throw herself off it. And with the flick of his tongue, he felt her shudder, felt the rhythmic convulsions start to wrack her body. She arched and cried out, moaned his name, and he held onto her like a dying man to the last light of life, drinking in her pleasure like it was ambrosia, guiding her through the fall and catching her at the bottom, boneless and spent. 

He crawled up next to her, and she rolled over to him, eyelids heavy. Her hand drifted down to his crotch, where his erection strained against his shorts. 

“Do you want…” The question was uncertain, almost sad. 

He did, almost to the point of pain. Instead, he gathered her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The reality of her life was not lost on him. When had she last received without having to give? When had pleasure been solely about her satisfaction? From the start, he had obligated her to him. Had threatened, blackmailed, and humiliated her. Made her be someone she wasn’t where everyone had to see it. She had done enough for him. He could do one thing — however inconsequential it might be — for her. 

“Yes,” he answered. There was no sense in lying about it when the evidence was so clearly seen and felt. “But not right now. Not tonight.” 

Hermione closed her eyes with a strained smile, as if she were holding back tears. 

“Thank you.” 

He held her close, his heart warming as she fell asleep in his arms. 

The trust she had in him was shattering, and he stared into the darkness with wide eyes, trying to understand it. Everything about Hermione was a direct rebuke to the beliefs he’d held as a child and the administration he’d secretly deceived as an adult. That he didn’t deserve her was obvious, but it begged the question: 

Could he ever? 

He thought he knew the answer. He also thought he knew how. 

It kept him awake all night. 

~*~*~

Returning to Rome the following morning was like sinking into the ocean’s depths after a gasping moment at the surface. The narrow streets and tall buildings cast shadows that darkened the cloud-dappled day. Even their hotel room, with its pale, honey-gold walls and cream-colored furniture, felt dull. The artful sprays of myrtle and red rose were too plentiful for the space, making the air heavy and cloying. 

“It’s almost over,” Hermione said, as if reading his thoughts. She sat before the vanity mirror in a white bathrobe putting the final pins into her blonde hair. She caught his eyes in the glass, the warm brown all but lost beneath the shadow and liner. “The ball tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and then —” 

“And then you’ll be gone,” he finished for her, trying to keep his voice clear of the loss he already felt. 

Their intimacy had changed something. Every conversation felt strained, as though each word supported a two-ton weight. She seemed uncertain around him, like all of her self-assuredness had withered while she slept, folding in on itself like a flower after the autumn’s first frost. Several times, he’d been on the edge of confronting the issue — over their late breakfast, on the short walk through the hotel lobby up and to their room, in the early evening silence while he was reading the negotiated agreement his undersecretary had so obligingly sent up for him. 

But he’d kept his mouth shut. If she needed to disengage, now was the time to do it. It was better, in fact, if they both did. They had one more night together, and then she would leave. Facing that reality was a necessary evil after what had felt like a week of dreaming. It was time to wake. 

He checked his watch. 

“We’re expected in ten minutes.” 

She placed a final pin, then rose and walked into the closet. Draco rose, too, his destination the bedroom’s wall safe. He kept his eyes on the combination lock, but heard keenly the soft _whump_ of her robe as it dropped to the floor, the high-pitched hiss of the zipper as she opened the garment bag, and the rustle of silk. He opened the safe and pressed an intercom button. 

“Gringotts vault 725. Draco Lucius Malfoy withdrawing the _Armand_.” 

The safe slammed shut, and Draco chanced a look at the walk-in. Another flash of red sent a spike of anticipation through him. The safe creaked open, and Draco withdrew a blue velvet box. When he turned to the closet again, his speeding heart stuttered to a stop. 

Hermione stood before him in a floor-length, gravity-defying red gown. Its sleeves fell off her shoulders, and the plunging neckline came to a point between her breasts. A high slit flashed her thigh as she walked, but the movement of the fabric at her feet made it look like she was floating. 

She cleared her throat. 

“Do I look okay?” 

Draco forced his eyes away from the curves of her body and grinned. 

“Something’s missing.” 

He opened the box and offered it to her. She drew her hands away with a gasp. 

“These can’t be real.” 

“From my family’s collection, gifted to my ancestor Armand for his assistance to William the Conqueror.” 

She raised an eyebrow and asked skeptically, “ _Assistance_?” 

“He came on after William took England to help consolidate the new king’s power. Bribes, threats, the typical political machinations.” 

Her lips tugged into a grudging smile. 

“You Malfoys just can’t help yourselves, can you?” 

“No, we cannot.” 

She turned around. 

“Would you mind?” 

He withdrew a necklace of rubies the size of his thumbnail, each surrounded by sparkling pavé diamonds, and hooked the clasp around her neck. He trailed his fingers across her shoulders and down her arms, memorizing the way her skin felt, mapping every freckle and scar. She turned, and he held his hand out to her, the matching earrings in his palm. 

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Shall we?” 

The hotel’s grand ballroom sparkled in the candlelight. The _Ministero_ ’s employees were well into their networking, taking full advantage of the opportunity to rub elbows with the country’s wealthiest political donors. Many lingered near the bar and around high-top tables, but some congregated at the room’s center on the hardwood dance floor. 

“I’m not expected to dance, am I?” Hermione whispered to him. 

“Not if you don’t want to.” 

He kept a hand at her back as they wound through the ballroom, meeting Adelmo and his undersecretary at one of the dinner tables. 

“ _Buonasera_ ,” Draco said with a nod. 

“Good evening, _Signore_ Malfoy, _cara_ Vivian.” 

“Where’s Livia?” Hermione asked. 

“My mother-in-law was taken unexpectedly ill this evening. Livia has chosen to care for her. You will have to make do with me, I’m afraid.” Adelmo’s eyes raked over Hermione, his tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips. He punctuated his statement with a smile that sent a chill up Draco’s spine. After a sip of his martini, he turned his attention to Draco. 

“Have you reviewed our agreement from yesterday?” 

“I have.” It was straightforward enough, but Draco had no intention of making it easy for him. “There are still some terms I’d like to discuss.” He caught the eyes of his undersecretary from across the room and summoned him with a gesture. “Perhaps we can discuss over dinner?” 

Adelmo’s mouth puckered in distaste, but he inclined his head. 

“Please, do sit down.” 

Over the five courses, Draco addressed the trade agreement line by line, his amusement directly correlated with Adelmo’s growing frustration. Once all the plates were cleared, he leaned toward Hermione. 

“I need to use the loo. I won’t be more than five minutes. Will you be okay?” 

She nodded and sipped her wine; she was only just starting her second glass. 

As the left, the quartet had been warming up their strings. When he returned, they were playing a smooth waltz. Couples twirled around the dance floor, their steps rising and falling in time. Among the dancers was Hermione, held close in Adelmo’s arms. Her face was plastered in a benign expression of bliss, but she moved with a simile of grace, something too stiff in her limbs to be natural. 

She swayed as the music ended and Adelmo pulled her close. He whispered into her ear, and she nodded, letting Adelmo wrap his arm around her waist and guide her to the ballroom’s exit. 

Something was wrong. 

Draco intercepted them at the door. 

“Rua.” 

Adelmo smiled at him. 

“I was going to show _la signorina_ my office.” 

“Like hell you are. Vivian stays with me.” Draco grabbed Hermione’s forearm, which earned him no more than a blank look. 

Adelmo waved away his concern. 

“She is fine, Malfoy. Isn’t that right, Vivian?” 

“I’m fine, Malfoy.” 

Her eyes were glazed, her voice a hair toward monotone, but it was the use of his last name that gave it all away. 

“Release her,” Draco snarled. 

“What?” 

“Release her, now.” 

“Malfoy, there is no need. Vivian is —” 

Pain split his knuckles as his fist collided with Adelmo’s chin. The Italian’s head cracked backwards, and he staggered as Hermione sagged. Draco caught her around the waist. 

“Hermione?” he whispered into her hair. 

She clutched at his shoulders, trying to hold herself up. 

“The Imperius Curse.” Her voice shook. “He was so quick, and I didn’t know… I couldn’t fight it, I couldn’t —” 

“It’s okay.” He felt her tremble under the weight of a future avoided. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

“How dare you,” Adelmo seethed, holding his jaw. 

Draco angled Hermione away from him, his lip curling in disgust. 

“Deal’s off.” 

“You can’t.” 

“Watch me.” 

He grabbed Hermione’s arm and exited the ballroom, ignoring Adelmo’s shouts and the commotion stirring behind him. He kept his pace controlled until they turned a corner. Then he stopped and took Hermione’s face between his palms, searching her eyes as if he could find and heal the hurt himself. 

“Are you okay?” 

She nodded and swiped at her brimming eyes. 

“Can you run?” 

“I think so. Just let me…” She braced on hand on his shoulder and stripped off her heels. “Let’s go.” 

They tore through the hotel, dashing up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. Breathless, Draco blasted open the door to their suite. 

“You’re getting out of here tonight.” 

“Draco, wait.” 

“We don’t have time to wait. Rua’s probably Firecalling his office as we speak. It’s only a matter of time before the Dark Lord hears of this. You need to be gone before he can start asking questions.” 

He paused as her hand cupped his cheek. 

“Thank you.” 

He leaned in, tempted to kiss her. He rested his forehead against hers instead and tried to catch his breath. 

“I promised he wouldn’t touch you. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not responsible for his behavior.” 

Once their clothes had packed themselves and their luggage had disappeared, they Floo’d to Draco’s flat. 

“Lilac! Papers, please!” 

The elf appeared at once, holding out a set of three scrolls tied with black ribbon. He opened them just long enough to verify that all of the essential information was correct. There wasn’t time for a more thorough review. 

“Your genealogy, your identification, and your travel papers,” he said, resealing them with a snap of his fingers. He handed them to her, then reached around her and grabbed a handful of powder. The fire crackled as he reactivated the Floo. 

“You’ll go to the Kleijns first. They’ll hide you for a day, maybe two, but you can’t stay there. They’ll direct you to a second safe house. I don’t know whose,” he said, forestalling her question. “The Kleijns trust them, and I trust the Kleijns. But don’t stay there longer than a week. By then, you should have been provided housing options.” He pulled a drawstring bag no larger than his fist out of thin air. “Thirty thousand Galleons,” he said, handing it to her. “The bag is Featherlight and Handfast — only you will be able to withdraw from it. For your first year, trust this bag more than you trust your bank. I can’t give you any more without it being traceable, but this should be enough to last until you find employment.” 

“Draco, I can’t —” 

“Hermione, you _must_.” He took her by the shoulders. “This is all the good I’m capable of right now. Take it and go.” 

Her lips collided with his, and he kissed her deeply, trying to put everything he’d felt over the past week — everything she’d awakened inside of him — into the sweep of his tongue and the nip of his teeth. 

“I believe you’re capable of more,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “So much more.” 

One last, crushing kiss. One final look into her amber eyes. Then, with her scrolls in one hand and the coin purse in the other, with his family’s most precious heirlooms secured around her neck and hanging from her ears, Hermione backed into the chimney. The fire swirled up around her, and her dress flared out like a scarlet hibiscus blooming against jewel-bright leaves. She was there, beautiful and sad, and then she wasn’t, the Floo sending her off with a roar that felt like his own, like the catastrophic failure inside of his chest as she left him forever. 

He swayed as the emotion ran its course. The shock of seeing her go, the anguish of a separation he had known was coming but hadn’t truly acknowledged. How much had he changed in just a week? How much change was possible in so short a time? 

The Floo activated, and hope lit in his chest. 

What if it was her? 

It was impossible, dangerously foolish. But he stepped forward anyway, waiting for that flash of red, the rush of body into his arms, and the promise that they would figure it out, that they could make it work, against all odds, all sense… 

He froze as Blaise appeared, dusting off the shoulders of his cloak with a flick of his fingers. His eyebrows rose. 

“Expecting someone else?” 

“No.” Draco stepped back, schooling his expression into one approximating neutral. “Which makes your arrival quite a surprise.” 

“Surprise arrivals may be the theme of the evening.” 

The ominous click of Blaise’s shoes echoed as he began to pace a circle around Draco. 

“I was out to dinner with quite a beautiful blonde. The evening was progressing well enough, but when we were halfway through our entrée, guess what landed on the wine bucket?” 

He paused, giving Draco half a second to answer. Draco said nothing; Blaise dipped his head and continued. 

“An owl with an urgent message telling me that Draco Malfoy, the Minister of Foreign fucking Trade, had cocked up what had to have been the simplest agreement our administration had seen in a year. I excused myself, as one must when summoned by none other than the Dark Lord himself. When I asked him _why_ , Draco, you had so gloriously bungled this deal, the Dark Lord seemed to think it was over a _woman_.” 

“Zabini…” Draco’s voice was full of warning. Blaise held up a finger. 

“A _half-blood_ woman, no less. You strung Astoria, one of the most desirable purebloods in our country, along for more than three years, and the minute she bucked at your beck, you dropped her over a call. But one foreign minister makes eyes at a tart you picked up from Merlin knows where, and you knock him flat and leave?” 

He stopped again, facing Draco square. 

“Who is Vivian Ward?” 

“A whore.” A beat of silence. “I picked her up at The Devil’s Snare after I ended it with Astoria. I paid her to travel to Italy with me.” 

“You ended a trade negotiation over a whore?” 

Draco shrugged. 

“She was a good whore. Besides, Rua was shorting us on wine. There’s a good chance production will increase next year, and their oversupply will mean —” 

“It wasn’t about the agreement, and you know it. This was a symbolic, equivalent exchange of goods meant to reaffirm Britain’s support for Italy’s Prime Minister and vice versa. You can’t expect me to believe you fucked it up all because some woman spread her legs for you.” 

“I don’t give a shite what you believe.” 

“Well you’d better start. Because I’m going to find out who Vivian Ward is, and when I do, you’re going to need someone to convince the Dark Lord that you’re not the traitor he thinks you are.” 

For years, Draco had been standing on the gallows, waiting his turn. Now, he felt the coarse rasp of the rope around his neck and heard the tolling of the town’s central clock. Blaise might never discover Hermione’s identity, but what Draco had done for her was the most recent brick in a long path of deceit. All it took was one — one family located abroad, one troublesome wizard discovered alive — and the trap door would swing wide beneath his feet. 

“If the Dark Lord doubts my loyalty, he can question me himself. I submit myself to his will.” 

“As do we all,” Blaise replied with a snarl. 

He disappeared in a rush of green. Once the fire had extinguished, Draco closed the Floo connection and sank into the nearest chair, steepling his fingers. 

He had plans to make.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line from "Pretty Woman": 
> 
> _“Do I look okay?”  
>  “Something’s missing.”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Hermione had no business receiving guests. She had been in Bergen for just over three months, living a quiet life in a small house at the town’s edge, where the paved road narrowed and the country grew wild. Her nearest neighbor lived half a mile away, and the elderly wizard looked nothing like the middle-aged man currently occupying her front porch. 

She watched through the peephole as he shifted his weight, impatient, cold, or, Hermione thought, a mix of both. Despite the gently falling snow, he wore no hat, and his thinning, sandy blond hair wafted in the breeze. He wore no overcloak, either. Just a standard, casual affair more appropriate for the office than a foray into a German winter. His ice-blue eyes squinted against the sudden gust of snow, and he knocked again, his bare knuckles bright red. 

“ _Hallo_? _Fräulein_ Ward? My name is Ivo Kühn. Perhaps you could open your door? It is very cold.” 

His name wasn’t familiar, though that wasn’t surprising; she could hardly be expected to know everyone in Bergen. That he knew her wasn’t exactly a shock, either. Her alias was on file as a resident. A local official could look her up in a matter of minutes. 

“ _Fräulein_ Ward?” 

“What do you want?” 

Ivo’s shoulders sagged in relief. 

“Just to talk.” 

She drew her wand, aiming it low through the wood of the door, and cracked it a few inches. 

“Who are you?” 

“Ivo,” he repeated with a taut smile. “Ivo Kühn. I work for the German Ministry.” 

She readjusted the grip on her wand. Draco had promised that her papers would be flawless, as legal as forgeries could get. That the German Ministry had found her after such a short time could only mean that he had been wrong. She had not planned on running again. She wasn’t ready. She needed Kühn to leave. 

“How may I help you?” 

He sent a longing look over her shoulder, at the fire burning in her hearth and the large pot of stew simmering on her range. 

“Perhaps I may come in?” 

“No.” 

His face fell. 

“Very well. We have a mutual friend who requires your help.” 

“I’m new to Germany. I don’t have any friends here.” 

“Our friend happens to be new to Germany, as well. Draco Malfoy.” 

A cold rope of dread slithered into her gut. 

“No,” she said around a bolus of bile and apprehension. “I don’t recognize that name.” 

Ivo’s expression turned sad, almost pitying. The hairs on her arms stood on edge. 

“I’m afraid we do not have time for falsehoods. Draco needs your help, _Fräulein_ Granger, and he needs it now.” 

Her Stunner was fast, but Ivo’s shield was faster. Her spell rebounded onto the eave, scattering wood and snow down onto them both. She stumbled backwards into her house, casting another Stunner over her shoulder. 

“ _Fräulein_ , please!” Ivo flicked her spell away, punching a hole through the side window. “I am not here to hurt you!” 

“Stay away from me!” she snarled, settling into a defensive pose with her wand raised high. 

He held his hands palm up, wand pointed toward the ceiling. 

“I will stay right here. Please, I need five minutes to explain.” 

“You have three.” 

“Voldemort is dead.” 

She blinked, certain she had misheard. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“He’s dead. Draco killed him. He is at our Berlin office now, but we must move quickly. Government abhors a vacuum as much as nature, if not more.” 

He held a hand out to her. She let it hang. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

“Do I look like the sort of man who would lie about such a thing?” 

He did not. But that wasn’t an answer. 

“Regime change is difficult under the best of circumstances. If we have any hope of salvaging Britain, we must act now. Draco cannot assume power alone.” 

“ _What_?” 

“My ministry knew that Voldemort’s rule could not last. We did not see it crumbling so soon but discussed at length what your country’s next leader should look like. A citizen, naturally. A resistance leader, if possible; a sympathetic insider, if not. Draco is not what one would call sympathetic, but you, a resurrected leader in the fight against tyranny and oppression? You will have the support of the people. The optics are equally favorable: a pureblood and a Muggle-born working together to right a great wrong. The United Kingdom has a chance to regain her lost soul, but it needs to be _now_ , before another member of Voldemort’s regime learns of his death and asserts control.” 

Her head spun. It was too much to take in, too complicated to work out all the angles and weigh the costs before deciding. As a member of the German Ministry, Ivo was clearly working an angle. How could she trust him? 

“Why did Draco come to you?” 

“Because I signed your paperwork.” 

Hermione was once again rendered speechless. 

“I have been processing refugee paperwork for Draco for over a decade. I was ignorant of it at first, but eventually noticed a pattern to the ancestries of the individuals and families seeking asylum and citizenship in Germany. I traced the trail back to him and discovered a man with a conscience in an unconscionable world. Three months ago, I offered him a way out. He refused. Two weeks later, he contacted me. We have been working together ever since. This, however…” Ivo frowned. “This was not part of our plan.” 

Hermione lowered her wand. 

“I want to see him.” 

“You will come? You will work with us?” 

“Not until I speak with him.” 

“Yes, yes, that is acceptable.” He withdrew a dented aluminum can from the inner pocket of his cloak, tapped it with his wand, and held it out to her. “Hold tight.” 

She jerked forward, spinning through space before landing in a nondescript room. Ivo tossed the can into a bin and marched toward the door. 

“Follow me, please.” 

He cut a quick path through a twisting series of hallways and stopped at a large, one-way mirror that looked in on a small room set with a table and two chairs. Draco sat in one, unharmed. Or so she thought until she looked closer. A low-intensity shiver wracked his body, punctuated by shuddering waves so strong she could hear his teeth clack together. The blanket across his shoulders failed to provide any comfort, and the steaming mug sent before him looked untouched. 

She rounded on Ivo with an accusing glare. 

“You didn’t say he was injured.” 

“This is a stress response. Our Healers have examined him and assure me that it will pass.” Ivo waved his hand at the mirror. A door appeared to its right. “You may see him now.” 

She caught a reflection of herself in the glass as she approached. She was still Vivian Ward, the stranger she knew so well. Her fear made manifest by necessity. 

Never again. 

Draco stilled when he saw her, watching with uncertain grey eyes as she crossed the room and dragged the unoccupied chair around the table. 

“You came.” 

“You doubted?” 

A tremorous shrug. 

“I wasn’t sure. Ivo has explained things?” 

“As much as he was able. Are you okay?” 

Draco’s hands were cold and clammy, and his fingers vibrated against her palms like trapped insects. His eyes shone as he shook his head. 

“I’ve never killed anyone before.” 

She squeezed his hands. 

“I’m sorry it was you.” 

There was a cost to taking a life, even a cursed one. 

“It had to be. You told me that.” 

That didn’t make the price any lower or the consequences any easier to bear. 

“Why now?” 

“Blaise came to see me right after you left. He heard what had happened in Italy and swore to find you. I knew he wouldn’t, but there are other things he would find… I didn’t want to die. This was how I survived.” 

There was a note of restraint to his voice. He was holding something back. 

“Survival?” she pressed. She squeezed his hand. His tremors had subsided to infrequent, shivering pulses, like he was simply chilled instead of submerged in a glacial pool. “Is that the only reason?” 

He stared at the table, at war with himself. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were as hard as steel. 

“I think I love you.” 

His declaration sucked the air from the room. Hermione sat still and silent as he continued. 

“I didn’t think it was possible. We only had a week. But you saw something in me, and you believed in it. And then I saw it, too, and the fairy tale you envisioned suddenly seemed possible. When the opportunity arose, it was worth the risk to try. If I could change things, if I could see you again…” He shifted his hands so that they covered hers. “You were worth the risk.” 

“What do you expect from me?” she asked quietly. 

He sat up and leaned toward her. 

“ _Nothing_ ,” he answered, his eyes urgent and earnest. “Ever since the Dark… Ever since Voldemort came to power, you’ve been at the mercy of powerful, ignorant men. You, and people like you, have lived and died by their laws. You deserve a life outside of their control. That includes mine.” 

“So what will you do?” 

His shoulders fell, and Hermione’s heart ached as she witnessed the death of hope within him. She saw the sting of implicit rejection quickly submerged by the grief of being denied the love he craved. But neither did the grief linger. Draco had controlled his emotions for two decades, concealing every expression that might be taken for weakness. She recognized the blank look that crossed his eyes as active compartmentalization. Later, in private, he would mourn. Right now, in public, he would carry on. He would be strong so that she could live a life she chose. 

He had claimed to love her; now, she knew that he did. 

“Ivo has some ideas, as do I.” 

“He said that you needed me. For aesthetics.” 

Draco turned to the mirror with a scowl. 

“He’s a real arsehole.” 

The mirror shuddered, and Hermione heard a faint bark of laughter. 

“Do you need me, Draco?” 

He shook his head. 

“I won’t obligate you to this place any more than you already are.” 

“Ask me.” 

He looked at her, eyebrows pulled together in a frown. 

“What?” 

“Ask me. Give me the choice and let me make it.” 

Another private war. Draco’s potential for good had only recently started to outweigh his cowardice. She should have realized it was asking too much for him to risk so much again, and so soon. 

“I can’t.” 

It was okay; he still had time to perfect the craft. 

“You can.” She leaned toward him, tilted his chin up with her fingers, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Trust me.” 

When she pulled away, his eyes were bright. 

“Stay,” he breathed, squeezing her fingers in his. “Stay with me. Not because you have to, but because you want to.” 

And so she did. 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line from "Pretty Woman": 
> 
> _Stay. Stay with me. Not because you have to, but because you want to._


End file.
